The Lemon Grove Page 2

  She only ever called her that these days when she wanted something. Somehow that hurt more than the slow, inevitable retraction of the word itself.

  She regrets it now, crumbling so easily; regrets grinding Greg into submission. The pair of them worked so hard to be able to afford this holiday, in spite of Benni, the villa’s owner, ramping up the price year on year. He knew what he had, Benni. He knew that they needed it. And with the new Dean coming in September, there was uncertainty over Greg’s ongoing role at the university too. Was he still Head of English? The former community college had only stepped up to full university status five years previously, but already there was a new board with new, business-driven ideas. There was a pressure on Greg that hadn’t been there before; there was more teaching, more admin, PhD students to supervise, and he was now expected to adopt a more hands-on role in upping the annual student intake. So yes, they needed their annual fix in Deià, at their beloved Villa Ana. Jenn was determined it was going to be special this year; she imagined they might drive the entire spine of the Tramuntana, from Deià right through to Pollença. Emma was old enough now to enjoy the hippy markets of Estellencs and Fornalutx, maybe the Picasso museum in Sóller, too. They could lunch under the grand old orange trees in the square, then she and Emma could browse the boutique shops in the old town. She was going to buy her something symbolic – a pendant, perhaps, or a bracelet. She wanted something that acknowledged their journey together, their unusual and very special bond. Yet she wanted something peculiar to Mallorca, too – a gift that spoke of the times they’d spent and memories made on the island.

  So it was settled. She and Greg would fly out a week ahead and Emma would move in with Greg’s mum. They could have their boring adult time discovering hidden coves and falling fast asleep after long, lazy lunches – then Emma would come out and they’d spoil her to bits. But it was no longer just Emma flying out. Now, tomorrow, they would be opening their door, and their holiday, to a stranger – and no matter how much she tries to tell herself she’s done a good thing, Jenn simply cannot shake off her misgivings. She should have stood her ground with Emma. She should have said no.

  It is cold now. Up above her, more stars spike the sky. A bat flits past – there, right in front of her, then gone. Observing the house from outside, lit up, its solid blue shutters absorbing some of the light from the moon, she’s stricken with nostalgia for these last few days. Already, there’s a sense of loss. This week – their week – has shot by. It’s as good as over, now.

  They park on the lip of Deià, by the Robert Graves School, then walk the gentle incline up to the village. The main drag is buzzing already, people strolling from café to café, perusing the menus or lingering at estate agents’ windows to ogle mind-blowing villas with infinity pools; villas they can never own. Candles are being lit on the terraces of tapas bars, and all along the curving road, stout wooden doors in stone walls open up to reveal bijou restaurants with giddying panoramas. From their patio table at Jaume tonight they’ll be able to see right down the gorge, past Villa Ana, and out to sea.

  They pass the grocery store where they buy their bread each morning. The store is closing down for the evening and dark-skinned men are ferrying in crates of furry, fat peaches from the roadside. Jenn lingers on the pavement, turning out her old leather handbag, filled with junk – brushes, lipsticks with their tops left off, unopened mail – as she tries to find space to squeeze in a couple of peaches for tomorrow’s breakfast. Greg hooks his arm around her back and strokes her ribcage with his thumb, ushering her away from the grocer’s.

  ‘Quick,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  Too late. The slovenly, florid-faced man standing in the doorway of Bar Luna has spotted them. He hails them and hastens down the steps, pipe in mouth. Greg strides on but Jenn is trapped.

  ‘Benni. Hi.’

  His thin, fussy mouth clamps down on his pipe and he nods slowly, his eyes raking over her as though he’s caught her and Greg in some terrible lie. He looks as though he’s been drinking since lunch. A breeze sends a strand of grey, oiled hair flickering across his face.

  ‘Again! You eat out again?’

  He chuckles to let her know he’s teasing, but there is a curve of disapproval on his mouth as he puffs his pipe and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  Jenn forces a smile.

  ‘Our last night of freedom, Benni. Emma arrives tomorrow.’

  Greg is forced to a standstill further down the road. He tilts his head to the sky, unable or unwilling to disguise his impatience as he waits for her to end the charade. Benni comes closer, his yellow teeth bared like a donkey’s.

  ‘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 co
mmentary 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 – fraggrant. ‘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.

  ‘Did you not have money for the taxi? Shit … your dad has the euros. Is he still not back from the supermarket?’

  A trickle of sweat wriggles down her nose as she leans down and gropes for her bag. Her naked breasts hang loose. She snatches up her vest from beside the sun lounger. Her skin is hot and sticky and, as she tries to force her arms through, the cotton twists and tightens, snaring her upper body in the diving position. With her breasts now trapped under the hem, farcically round and exaggerated, she struggles to untangle the fabric. She concedes defeat, pulls the vest back over her head and starts again. Emma eyes Jenn’s freckled shoulders; runs her eye over her body.

  ‘Taxi? What taxi? Dad came for us.’

  Jenn is shot through with anger, but strangles it there and then. She takes her time, slowly feeds her arms through, one at a time, then inches the fabric down with her thumbs. The ritual gives her time to compose herself.

  ‘That must have been a nice surprise, then?’

  ‘Surprise? Hardly. It was all arranged last night.’

  This time Jenn can’t suppress the pang of hurt. ‘All arranged?’ When was it arranged? While she was in the loo at the restaurant? It was certainly never discussed. She swallows it, straightens her back, gets up and envelops Emma with a hug.

  ‘Well, anyway – you’re here! You look fantastic.’ Emma pulls away, still eyeing her askance. Jenn takes no notice, claps her hands together. ‘So, honey. Where are you hiding him? Where’s your man?’

  ‘Inside. Unpacking.’ Her tone is glacial.

  ‘Oh. Okay. So. Lunch? How about a Spanish omelette?’

  ‘Tortilla. It’s called tortilla.’ Emma seems to enjoy enunciating precisely; torrh-tee-ya, she says.

  Again, Jenn squashes the impulse to rise to the barb, counters it instead with an extra shot of jollity.

  ‘I can chop up some tomatoes and those jalapeños you love, instead of the onions, if you want?’

  Emma tunes out, turns round to face the villa where Gregory is wheeling a suitcase across the terrace. Without turning back round she murmurs, ‘Thanks. But we ate on the plane.’

  Did they have an argument? Is that it? Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of the week?

  ‘Come on. I’ll hel
p you unpack.’

  Emma removes her sunglasses; little, sullen dents appear in her chin. She looks close to tears.

  ‘Emma?’

  ‘Don’t act like you don’t know!’

  ‘What? Did you and Dad have a quibble, honey?’

  ‘You knew we were on our way! You had loads of time to … to prepare yourself! Do you know how that made me look?’

  And now Jenn understands. ‘Honey – I’m sorry. Really. I fell asleep.’

  Emma turns her head right round and holds it there. Eventually she brings it back, she juts out her jaw, her top lip trembling.

  ‘Lying there … like that. It’s not what you should be doing at your age. Do you know what you look like?’

  No; but she can guess. Emma thinks she looks unseemly; ropey; cheap. Emma is very near quivering with pique. Jenn can feel it coming. She focuses on her book on the ground; calmly picks it up. Turns it over as though considering it for the first time. But, when it comes it is worse, it is much worse than any of those jibes.

  ‘You look common. Really, really common.’

  Unable to staunch the tears, Emma flounces off down the path.

  Jenn does not attempt to call her back. She needs a glass of wine. She picks up her towel, wraps it around her waist; and, barefoot, hot-treads the flagstones back to the villa.

  She doesn’t want to go inside. She stops at the standpipe, runs the tap, and realises at once that it’s this that she’s been dreading. Not the arrival of the boy, nor yet the relinquishing of her Me time with Emma’s father. For the past week she’s been living in ever-tightening anticipation of the continual treading on eggshells, the constant adjusting to the weather-vane of Emma’s moods. It’s been like this for the last two years, since their daughter turned thirteen, but Jenn hoped that falling in love, properly, for the first time, might give Emma a different perspective, encourage her to think beyond the confines of her own selfish needs. Maybe Greg is right: maybe she should cut her some slack. Maybe she has cut her too much; tried too hard. Jenn laughs bitterly and scoops a handful of water to her dry lips. She snaps off the tap. She can admit it to herself, now – she’s scared; scared of the tension Emma’s mere presence can bring, even to a place as idyllic as this.