“Ah…un minut, si us plau,” he stammered, picking up the single laminated sheet. For thirty seconds he studied the range of dishes—three entrées and three mains—before hurriedly deciding on spinach sautéed with raisins and pine nuts to start, followed by what he hoped was a type of fish baked in the oven. “I una copa de vi blanc”.
“Moltes gràcies!” The waiter gave him a winning smile, and Kim discovered a pair of sparkling chestnut eyes. “I gràcies també per parlar Català!”
He was slightly shocked: the waiter was thanking him for speaking Catalan. Back in Australia, he’d made the effort to learn some basic Catalan phrases, having read that it made a better impression than speaking Spanish in this part of the world, but this was the first time he’d taken the leap of trying to utter even the simplest sentence. He wasn’t about to make a fool of himself in front of Laia or the actors, so he’d so far limited himself to speaking just English with them.
Tony, his Greek-Australian boyfriend. Ex. He had the same surly, sexy presence as that chef, who just then had caught him looking, and scowled. He looked away, out into the street, where tourists were continually passing by in the harsh sunshine. Tony wouldn’t have scowled. He would have smiled in his mischievous, challenging way, and ten minutes later you’d find yourself on your knees choking on his big fat dick. If ever a guy couldn’t keep it in his pants. Half of gay Melbourne, and a quarter of Melbourne women had first-hand tales to tell aboutTony’s trouser snake. So yeah, you’d have to be a fool to consider him boyfriend material, which hadn’t stopped Kim from trying. To give him his due, Tony had tried too. They’d lasted nearly two years living together before Tony declared that he needed more space. Kim agreed, as the last year of their relationship had left him drained, devastated, and embittered.
And then… he just plunged into his work. If he was ever going to make it as a theater director, he had to stop measuring himself by the rulers that regular folk used—relationships, jobs, mortgages, and what-have-you—and just focus, focus, focus. Theater had to be it, only it. Too many people failed. Those who succeeded were laser-focused. Tonys there were by the millions in this world, however cute, however hung, but world-class artists formed a comparative handful. Tony had wanted to keep some form of contact—at the end of the day it was his first serious attempt at a relationship too. Did that reflect on Kim, say something about his desirability as a boyfriend? He liked to think it did. After all, three quarters of eligible Melbourne had been chasing after Tony, and he had chosen Kim. But in the end, it wasn’t enough.
The spinach arrived, conveyed from the counter beside him by that same sexy waiter in an elegant pirouette—offering him first a flash of that tantalizing bum followed by a blazing smile and the twinkling chestnut eyes. He could imagine living permanently in a spot like this. The greens had been sautéed and reduced in olive oil, garlic, raisins, and pine nuts, with a couple of toast slices on the side. After a tentative bite, Kim decided it was his new favorite dish. He sipped his glass of house wine, which was nicely dry and woody, not bad at all considering it came included in the menú. After lunch, he would head back to his hotel, do his prep, get on a video call with Santi, and get one or both of the other possibles lined up to read tomorrow. He’d send anemail to sack Amat, copying in Laia. Most actors only read their mail about once every three months, so Laia unfortunately would have to be the unofficial bearer of that bad news. Tomorrow morning he’d start improvising around the scenes that didn’t involve the character Anton. If they resolved the actor situation before lunchtime, they might even get to impro with the newbie in the afternoon. Unbidden, Amat’s smoldering green glare floated into his reveries. The guy was sure to totally spit his dummy, but as long as he did that off theater premises, Kim couldn’t give a toss. It was even quite fun to think of him ranting and raving to Laia on some drunken rampage, getting that sexy ass all hot and bothered.
The same waiter arrived to whisk away his plate, and place the fish before him, and Kim found himself once more drowning in that dazzling smile.
“Thank you, uh…gràcies!That was absolutely delicious.”
“You are welcome,senyor,de res.”
It would be quite easy to become addicted to this town.
5
After the read-through, Dídac watched Delatour and Laia exit the Reading Room out of the corner of his eye, even as he went through the motions of greeting and chatting with the other cast, some of whom he hadn’t seen literally for years. His reading hadn’t gone brilliantly. He knew when his own work wasn’t up to scratch, and today it had sucked. After that initial flare-up at his lateness, Delatour had studiously ignored him. Dídac had enough technique and training not to need a director’s mollycoddling, but he was hating himself for his lateness today. Having meant to be prepared and on time, instead, he had rolled up late and hung over. What was worse was that among the other cast members, it had looked like he was playing his star’s privilege card, like “I can arrive late because I’m famous”. He was working on loosening that perception—organizing to go to lunch with as many of the cast who were available—when his phone buzzed.
Lunch NOW in La Montiel. No one else. Urgent!
“Ostres!Sorry, guys, I’m not going to be able to do lunch after all. That was my agent. She needs to see me ASAP.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Carme Roig exclaimed. “And who is your agent these days, Didi? I need to change mine.”
Carme, always fishing for information, desperate to scale the ladder. Exactly as he’d been fresh out of drama school.
“Ah, she isn’t taking on anyone right now,” he parried. “But when she opens her books again, I’ll let you know. Promise.”
Making further quick excuses between his goodbye kisses to everyone, men and women, he extricated himself from the meeting, and clattered downstairs, slapping on his sunglasses as he left the theater. Out on the street he turned left, away from the Ramblas, and began walking fast. He had a sinking feeling about this lunch date. When she said urgent, he knew to take her seriously. Kim Delatour. His productions were so beautiful, who wouldn’t want to work with him? Yet the guy was cold as ice, and so arrogant he might have been born with a stick up his ass. How had someone that cerebral ended up in a sector like the theater?
La Montiel was a local restaurant well away from Barcelona’s Raval district, over in Sant Antoni neighborhood, and so theoretically safe from any prying Teatre Romea eyes. True to its name, the walls were plastered with photos of the mythical Spanish actress Sara Montiel. Dídac entered and walked to the back, where there was a small, elegant dining room with comfortable, upholstered chairs. Laia was already seated, perusing the menu. If Dídac’s entrance caused a stir here, the other diners were too well-bred to acknowledge it.
“Did you get away OK?” Laia asked.
“I said I was meeting my agent. So what was so urgent?”
“Let’s order first. I’m starving. Working with that guy is relentless. He doesn’t stop!”
Dídac chose thesalmorejo, a cold soup originally from Córdoba, in Andalusia, followed by the pastaal pesto, while Laia went for a quinoa salad, and then the tenderloincarpaccio. After they’d together watched the moustachioed blond waiter’s muscular ass recede, Dídac popped the question:
“So?”
“He’s talking about sacking an actor. No clues as to who. He has a zoom meeting lined up with Santi this afternoon.”
“Merda!”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“He can’t do it. It’s in my contract.”
“You gave him an easy strike, this morning, Didi. That’s two. After the way we messed up the other night, you should have been on your best behavior this morning.”
“Wemessed up? He was an asshole!”
