Again, Rachel, page 38
When I’d got into bed and was switching off the light, I suddenly realized that if my life were a movie, Quin would tumble in, in a few hours’ time, in a mad, snoggy, semi-undressed clinch with another woman. Who would transpire to be …? The flight assistant from the plane? Shiv? Golden?
My money would probably be on Shiv.
The idea made me feel … bad. I couldn’t narrow it down to individual feelings. Just weird. Bad weird.
But I was too tired to get up, get dressed again and go home. If, in five hours’ time, Quin fell in here with his ex-wife, I’d just have to deal with it.
The bedroom light clicked on and I woke up, blinking against the brightness.
‘Hey!’ Quin looked confused. ‘You’re really here. I saw your car but –’ Dropping his luggage he declared, ‘Well, this is great,’ and, making me laugh, planted big, smacky kisses on my forehead, my eyelids, my ear.
‘How come, though?’ he asked.
‘A surprise.’
‘I’m so here for this sort of surprise. Okay, let me brush my teeth and all that, then we’ll get some sleep.’
Moments later, he came out of the bathroom, naked and smelling of toothpaste. ‘Budge over.’ He slid into the bed. ‘I mean, budge nearer.’
He hit the light and into the darkness said, ‘How come I arrive home and find you in my bed?’ He still seemed uncertain. ‘I mean, I’m happy and all –’
‘How happy?’
‘… That’s a bit of a leading question.’
‘Let’s see.’ I slid down his body.
‘What’s …. going on?’ Then, ‘No. Don’t answer that. I’m just ecstatic it’s happening.’
70
Thirty-two floors up, high above the sea, blue light streamed into a cool, white bedroom, the huge windows suggesting vast space beyond. I slid from the bed, dying for my first look at Barcelona in the daylight.
And it was spectacular. Far below was a teeny pool, a miniature strip of sand and, stretching to infinity, endless sea and sky.
I was in Quin’s shirt – I’d woken during the night, chilly from the aircon. But I could spend every second in this room naked because no one could see us.
‘Oh, Quin,’ I said. ‘The view!’
From the bed, he said, ‘I’m looking at it.’
‘Haha!’ I pulled down the shirt so that it fully covered my bum.
‘Get back in here,’ he said.
‘I didn’t come to Barcelona to spend my time doing … that.’ I swept my hands in the direction of his groin.
‘I’ll be real quick,’ he promised, a gleam in his eye.
‘Hold on.’ I picked up the phone. ‘I’m ordering our breakfast. Yes, I am. Shush!’ After giving all the details, and supplementing them with extra requests from Quin – ‘Do they do detox juices? Yeah, great. But no papaya, Rach, tell them, no papaya.’ – I hung up. ‘It’s being delivered in fifteen minutes.’ I pulled off the shirt. ‘Your time starts … now!’
We’d landed in Barcelona late last night, into Saturday-night frenzy – bumper-to-bumper traffic, horns blaring, music pulsing from competing venues. And it was warm. Palm trees lined the streets and it was a thrill to discover that our hotel was right next to the beach.
Quin had fallen asleep on the plane. After his middle-of-the-night homecoming, he’d managed about four hours’ sleep before getting up, unpacking, repacking and then driving five kilometres in Saturday-morning gridlock traffic to pick up twelve bottles of orange wine from Fincas de Azabache, an iconic South Dublin wine store where Audi-driving Rugby Dads regularly engaged in shouting matches with other Audi-driving Rugby Dads over parking spaces.
Said orange wine was for Finley’s birthday brunch at Vivi and Roly’s, which was surprisingly enjoyable, even though both Shiv and Golden were present. Shiv, being Finley’s mother, kind of had to be there. And Golden was Finley’s godmother.
But the beauty was that Shiv and Golden had history, so long running that it was barely concealed. (Among other things, they’d fought over Quin, a grant from the Irish Enterprise Board, and an old picnic rug Roly had been throwing out.) This meant that their attention was focused on each other, leaving me flying beneath the radar, having a surprisingly pleasant time.
Mostly with Vivi and Michelle, who engaged me in book talk, but whenever I sat up straight and declared, ‘Oh, I loved it,’ they frowned and used words like ‘specious’ and ‘mendacious’.
It happened so often that we ended up laughing uncontrollably. ‘You must think we’re impossible-to-please snobs,’ Michelle said.
‘And you must think I’m a halfwit!’
‘But at least you try,’ Vivi declared, inadvertently glancing at Shiv, then colouring at her faux pas.
My heart filled with warmth for Quin’s clever, cultured family. Okay, they weren’t over-burdened with empathy but they were great company and meant so well.
No matter what you did wrong, everything worked out in the end.
At the airport, Quin fell asleep in the fancy frequent-flyer’s lounge, then again on the plane. But Barcelona woke him up. ‘Hey.’ He was suddenly animated. ‘Let’s go out.’
Though it was gone midnight I was on for it. Parking all the emotional shifts and insights of the previous week and being here, present, with Quin, was important. I was keen to do anything he wanted. Except, ‘Not a place with a pool.’
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘Saturday night, in a party city? Me, shy and stone-cold sober, watching beautiful young things, out of their heads, misbehaving in the water? I have my limits, Quin.’
Briefly, he went tight about the mouth, then looked around. ‘Where’s the concierge? Oh, it’s a she.’ He engaged her in intense chat, quizzing her on nearby pool-free bars and making her laugh. ‘Okay.’ He was back with a booking. ‘Five minutes from here, on the oceanfront. Sounds good.’
After a quick change into more glitzy clothes – me in spindly-heeled sandals and one of my short dresses, him in a casual suit – off we went.
The bar was gorgeous. Three walls were open to the balmy night, revealing a sophisticated space with a hint of salt and sea.
Panels of aqua glass formed clusters of intimate seating – and what seating! In my first seven seconds I saw two Eames loungers, a Barcelona chair and a marshmallow sofa. A transparent bubble chair swung from the ceiling, shifting back and forth, looking slightly saucy.
‘Great music,’ Quin said.
‘And not too loud!’
We were led to a pair of low-slung lounge chairs, set in a circle of mellow light. Hiding behind my menu I took a cautious look around. To my relief, the clientele seemed ordinary enough people – perhaps slightly better-looking than average – instead of the coked-up, yacht-jumping Eurotrash I’d feared.
I squeezed Quin’s arm. ‘We’re not even too old!’
‘Speak for yourself, Grandma.’
Then I opened my menu … ‘Yikes. This buzzy, mellow vibe does not come cheap.’
‘Don’t, Rach.’
‘Don’t what?’
Quin shook his head. After a moment of silence he touched my knee with the toe of his shoe. ‘So what’s the sexy dress about?’
‘Must it be about anything?’
‘Not because you wore a dress for the night with Kallie and Luke and I complained I never saw you in one?’
‘Well … I mean, you had a point.’ Then, ‘Quin? Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. Sorry. Probably just tired.’ Making a visible effort to be nice, he said, ‘So. How are things with your ex-husband?’
Shoving down a thousand confusing feelings, I said, ‘Kallie’s already gone back and he’ll be off in the next few days.’
‘And? Are you okay?’
‘Yes … But …’ Suddenly the chance to unburden myself to Quin was hugely attractive. He cared about me, he’d listen. ‘Things with Luke weren’t as black and white as I’d once thought.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that maybe he wasn’t entirely to blame.’ I forced myself to say the unsayable. ‘Quin, I think I might have relapsed after Yara died …’
‘Um … what? You “think”? Isn’t a relapse sort of a yes or no situation?’
‘I’m not … exactly sure. I couldn’t sleep and my doctor gave me tablets. They were legal. Prescribed. I started taking more than I should have. I went to a second doctor, then –’
‘But they were legal? You were hardly texting your dealer?’
‘No, but –’
‘And you’re not doing it now, right? He’s the arse who moved to Denver and blocked all contact.’
I took a breath. ‘I’m still trying to figure everything out –’
‘Rach!’ he interrupted. ‘Are we really doing this? Spending our time in this amazing city talking about who was to blame in a marriage which ended six years ago?’
‘… No.’ Then, ‘Of course not.’
Internally, I began pressing down the thoughts and feelings again. This wasn’t the time. Which was a strange relief.
Except … what would we talk about now? I threw a look around the bar and noticed a woman wearing an amazing neck cuff, the sort of thing Claire would wear. ‘Oh God!’ I’d just remembered. ‘I wonder how Claire and Adam are getting on?’
‘Yeah. Good on them.’
‘… Mmmmm.’
‘Oooooh? You’re very judgy.’
‘I’m not.’ I sounded snappy, because I genuinely wasn’t judging anyone. ‘Just worried Claire isn’t being honest with Adam.’
‘Calm down,’ Quin said.
‘Okay.’ I took a breath. ‘Sorry.’
After a couple of extremely pricey drinks, we strolled back to the hotel along the boardwalk, the sucking and crashing of waves reaching us from the darkness.
‘It’s ten to two,’ I said, ‘And I know that’s only ten to one in Ireland, but I still feel glamorous. Debauched, nearly!’
The heat had faded, the breeze had got stronger and Quin took off his jacket and put it around my shoulders.
‘Like we’re in a perfume ad! What should it be called? The perfume? “Mini-break”?’ I whispered it a couple of times in ‘the voice’.
‘It needs to be an emotion,’ Quin said.
‘Amourrr,’ I whispered. ‘Sssssexxx. Loversssssss.’
‘Trrrreachery,’ Quin said.
‘Nostallllllllgia.’
‘Betrayalllllll.’
71
‘Mum says we’re not to go to Las Ramblas. That we’ll get mugged.’
‘We’re not going to Las Ramblas.’ Oh, such scorn from Quin. ‘It’d be as tragic as visiting London and going to Oxford Circus.’
You relapsed and ruined everything.
‘The boardwalk where we were last night’, I read from a blog, ‘is “a popular place for a romantic stroll”. C’mon, Quin, let’s stroll romantically.’
My phone pinged and Quin’s head jerked up. ‘Text from your ex-husband?’ His tone was acidic.
‘… From Claire.’
‘Well? How did the swinging go?’
It was a fucking disaster.
‘Oh God, no!’ I said. ‘Poor Claire.’
I was JEALOUS. Of Adam and Beatriz.
Then:
Adam was into it. I wasn’t!
Then:
I’ve gone too far this time.
‘This is what happens,’ Quin said obliquely.
And I had enough sense to not ask him what he meant.
There was a final message from Claire.
Mum invited Luke to her party. He said yes.
‘Quin? Mum’s invited Luke to her party, apparently he said yes.’
‘So we’re not going?’
‘That’s right. Come on, let’s see Barcelona.’
Outside the day was blue and yellow and all go. Tanned, muscular hotties were running at speed and visored cyclists, bent low over their bikes, came at us like attacking insects.
‘Exsqueeze me!’ I said as three roller-skaters whizzed by, whipping the air around us. ‘Trying to stroll romantically here!’ I smiled at Quin but at that exact moment, he was twisting his head away from me.
On the busy beach, golden young things were playing volleyball or doing slow, graceful movements that might have been t’ai chi.
On the other side of the boardwalk was real life – a quaint-looking neighbourhood of four- and five-storey apartment buildings, separated by dim, narrow streets. Laundry hung on tiny iron balconies or on lines strung between buildings, and squat, pretty palm trees – more like palm shrubs – sat at regular intervals.
An elderly woman was having a shouted, balcony-to-balcony conversation with another woman, who could have been her twin. Clusters of older men sat on rough chairs, talking energetically.
I asked, ‘Can we take a look?’
‘Rach. It’s not a theme park.’
Oh. Kay. ‘Quin … are you …?’
‘Fine. Just – locals live there, it’s their home.’
‘Sure.’ There were other people, obviously tourists, strolling through the narrow streets but no way was I risking an argument when we still had thirty-six hours trapped with each other.
He exhaled. ‘Sorry, Rach, of course we can. It’s why we’re here.’ He led me into the small streets. ‘Until the 1992 Olympics, it was just a poor fishing port, then they gussied it up. But it’s still a real community.’
Men sat at tiny zinc tables, playing a board game. ‘Dominos,’ Quin said.
Everyone seemed to know each other and the whole place was vibrant, teeming with life.
Just as I wondered if any kids lived here, we came upon a playground filled with them, climbing, jumping, calling to each other. Watching children was always bitter-sweet but the balance had greatly tipped in favour of joy.
I’m happy now, so is Luke, everything is fine.
‘You sure you don’t mind doing this?’ I asked Quin. ‘You’ve seen it all before. We could do something else.’
‘All good.’
After lunch in a low, pokey traditional restaurant – ‘a Barcelona secret’, according to Quin – we went back to the hotel for a quick rest before hitting the beach but we accidentally slept all afternoon.
I awoke, without a clue where I was. I lay, staring at nothing, trying to get it together, when a memory ambushed me. It had been a morning in New York. Early. Too early to start living through another day where my baby was still dead, so I’d slipped some magic tablets into my mouth and got relieved of the feelings for a little longer.
Some hours later, groggy and confused, I’d woken again. This time, I’d got out of bed. Beneath me, the floor felt unsteady. I stood, waiting for it to become more solid, when Luke appeared in the doorway.
Suddenly wary, I’d said, ‘I thought you were at work.’
‘I know you did.’ He watched me, the way he always watched me then – analytically. Detached.
It was three weeks, maybe four, since he’d discovered my hidden pills. Since then I’d done a good job of taking them in secret.
Moving into the bedroom, he pulled me against his chest and held me tight. I relaxed against him, suddenly grateful for the hard heat of his body. Then, very quietly, he whispered into my hair, ‘You have to stop.’
Back in the now, in Barcelona, sadness rushed in, different layers of it. You relapsed. It was your fault.
Every time that thought arrived, a bolt of fear shot through me and every time it went a little deeper.
I shifted, looking for Quin. Stretched across the bed, he was still conked out. I put a hand on his shoulder and his eyes snapped open.
‘We fell asleep.’ He sounded stunned. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten to eight.’
‘Okay … I need coffee.’ He stumbled around the room, then into the shower. When he came back, he was awake. ‘So tonight? Food? We can pick up something casual out there.’ He nodded towards the sea. ‘Or.’ He paused. ‘I’ve booked two places at a pop-up in a villa belonging to a Catalan nobleman, a comte.’
I’d have quite happily gone back to the boardwalk and some unscary, touristy place, but it was obvious Quin was lobbying for the nobleman’s gaff. ‘The pop-up sounds interesting.’
‘Interesting’ was one of the things I loved about Quin. An ‘opera supper’ on a boat in Helsinki harbour had been a total shambles but we’d had such a laugh. However, you needed to be in the whole of your health for his adventures and tonight I wasn’t.
Wearing the second of my sexy dresses, we headed to an eerily quiet network of leafy, residential streets which reeked of old money. Imposing villas, their windows dark and shuttered, snubbed us with their haughty façades as we hurtled past in an Uber, trying to catch glimpses of house numbers.
‘I think this is it,’ Quin said as the driver stopped outside a pale-pink, five-storey villa, and said things to us in Catalan, the gist of which seemed to be, ‘Get out.’
Framed by palm trees and uplighting, the villa was set behind metal gates which were unnecessarily tall. Clambering onto the pavement, I tipped my head back to see the top and had to wonder at what point the extra metal became just showing off.
Quin is great and my life is good.
‘Is that the Comte?’ Quin asked as a balding, irritated-looking man beckoned us to the front door. ‘I thought he’d look more … noble?’
Once it was established that our names were on the list, we were led up stone stairs by a harried woman into a dimly lit room where perhaps twenty other people milled around, drinking red wine from large goblets. From what I could see – admittedly not much – they looked as if they’d come straight from a very fashionable evening wedding. There were a lot of feathered hairpieces, thick purple lipstick, dark red tartan, spiky jewellery and gold platform shoes.
The fashion people, who turned out to be Italian, greeted us with delighted cries. Lovely, of course – but it was only then that I understood tonight would be a communal experience.
