I always imagined living in Phoebe’s brain might be like living in a comic book where words just appear out of nowhere like comets. She made me art-retreat flyers, she showed me the flyers, I told her to change Van Gogh to Picasso and we argued about cubism which we both agreed was the most grown-up conversation we’d ever had in our lives.
I’m on the patio now, sitting on a low stone wall and admiring the building silhouetted against the fading sky, seeing it reflected perfectly in the pool. There has been something about being here for the last four months that has healed me; it has connected me back into the world; it has calmed down every part of my nervous system. I’m most aware of it at night when I can hear myself breathe again. And I’m cooking but loving the cooking, remembering why I do it. I also meet people, haveconversations with them, get glimpses into their lives. There was a writer called Ola on the last trip who would tell me long stories into the night about her life in Nigeria, her family, and cookegusiwith me. I’m realising that this is also a chance to learn, listen and host in so many other ways. And I explore this island. I sit on beaches –not always naked– and put my feet in the sand, I watch sunsets, I sometimes swim underwater just like a dolphin and someone I once knew was right. It’s the best way to swim.
The eagle is in the nest. Five mins away.
Miguel is playing taxi today, his new role because he has the cooler car. He often texts me like this in code because he thinks it’s funny when really all it will take is a guest seeing his messages to think they’re being taken to a safe house. I text back a thumbs-up and walk into the kitchen to get out the welcome drinks. As I walk in, I see the framed prints by the wall leading up to the stairs. It felt wrong to not share Chloe’s drawings and sketches with others so I tore them out of the journal and framed them. I like having a reminder of her to look at every day, to feel the glow of knowing that she was inspired and creative when she was here. Knowing that the retreat tapped into all those parts of her that had been hanging by a thread. People ask about the sketches and I tell them who did them. Obviously, I don’t go into much detail about the nature of our relationship.She was one of my first guests and I completely fell for her, but like all good love stories, I panicked, it ended, I let it be. But I like talking about her. I think I always will.
Artists. I hope they like olives. I’ve got five guests on this retreat and I’ve ordered in a lot of wine because in my mind, I imagine them sat beside their easels with goblets of a decent red, their brushes sticking out at different angles. I’ve got somegood coffee-table books in, and I watched two artist biopics to prepare; it probably wasn’t the best idea given that both films featured artists battling with demons, drugs and infidelity. But they went on to become legends in the art world. Maybe it starts here.
At first the splash scares the fuck out of me because I’ve always had my suspicions that this place might be mildly haunted.Is it a swimming ghost?I don’t know how I’d exorcise that, I’d have to go down into the local town and speak to a padre. But then I hear some panicked bleating and realise it’s a goat.Gary the goat. In my pool. For crap’s sake, I thought I had fixed that hole in the fence and I’ve just had the thing cleaned.Please don’t poo or wee or moult in there.Can goats swim?He doesn’t look like he can. His mates watch him from the other side of the fence, completely useless, one of them bleating back.Do I lasso him?I don’t know how to do that.Yeah, I’m going to have to go in. Shit, the guests are five minutes away.I don’t want to be sopping wet when they arrive so I kick off my shoes and whip off my shirt and shorts, edging myself carefully into the pool.Do goats bite?I really should try and know more about these fellas since we share land. I approach him, noticing the blank look in his eyes.Dude, you have weird eyes. He punches his hooves at me trying to stay afloat and I try and dodge them.
‘I’m trying to help you, kid,’ I shout in the spray. He doesn’t look very happy.Maybe it’s because I called you a kid. You look like a fully grown goat. If you’re an adult goat then maybe you shouldn’t have been so stupid as to have fallen in my pool. He’s going to punch me in the eye and then I’ll be concussed and pass out in my pool and die. That’ll be how Miguel and the artists will find me. I tread water around him. I’m going to have to go in from the back which is something I never thought I’d have to say about a goat. I swim towards him and grab him, trying to contain his flailing limbs, dragging him to the side as best I can. It’snot a perfect fluid motion. In fact, it’s more like we’re fighting. Underwater. As you do. There’s a point where I think I grab his bollocks in error and yes, they are bloody massive.Why aren’t they helping him float?
‘BENJAMIN?’ I hear Miguel shout from the side. The goat tries to drag me under.Not today, oh bearded one. I have guests.Shit. I’m in my pants. This is not good. It looks like I’m either drowning him or doing some kinky stuff with a goat. In a pool. But maybe it’ll be good inspiration.Chagall, doesn’t he paint goats?I see Miguel lower himself into the shallow end as I push the goat to safety and the bugger finds his footing on the steps, climbing up. Miguel slaps him on the arse and he scarpers away, leaving a trail of water and matted fur on the patio.No thank-you? Nothing?I bob there for a moment wondering how on earth I’m going to style this out. The guests will never get in this pool now.
‘Shit, are they here? Please don’t tell me the guests saw that?’ I say to Miguel, dripping onto the patio.
Miguel looks down at my sopping light-grey underpants. They really do show off far too much. ‘Hey, it’s like that time I was naked and snorkelling with my flippers. Not so different really?’ he says.
I can’t bear to turn to the courtyard where the guests are probably standing.
‘Maybe this time though, it’s good there are no real guests,’ he continues.
What?I don’t understand what he’s saying. I turn to see an empty courtyard and then I look back to Miguel.Have people not shown up? Cancelled? Worse, could we not fit their luggage in the jeep and he’s left them at the airport? He would have called, no?
‘You said the eagle was in the nest,’ I tell him. ‘You texted.’
‘Your sister gave me different information. She said one guest,’ he says, shrugging and winking at me, wandering inside the villa. ‘She’s very nice. I think you two will get along.’ He walks off laughing, humming with smugness. I’m not sure why. Could he go and find a mop? Check on that goat?
And then I work out why. Out of the shadows, a figure appears. I try and protect my modesty. I can’t have my only guest meet me looking like this. But then my breath stops for a moment when I see who it is.Chloe. She’s wearing flip-flops, a long white skirt and a vest top, a jumper tied around her shoulders, and sunglasses.
She’s here? But how?
She walks over nervously. ‘Hi. Are you Ben?’
I can hardly contain my smile. ‘Yes.’
She pauses. ‘You look a lot like Pedro Pascal, has anyone ever told you that?’ she says.
‘Many times.’ She has a bag. The same bag she had when she came here the first time. I even remember her bag. ‘Are you here for the artists’ retreat?’ I ask.
‘Yes. You’re naked,’ she says, pointing at me.
‘Not quite. I have pants on.’
‘They’re not hiding much though, really, are they?’ she says, smiling. I remove my hands from where they were. She doesn’t even flinch. ‘Is the goat OK?’
‘You saw that?’ I say, my face creasing with horror. ‘Yes. It’s part of the retreat. You get to swim with the goats. It’s very calming, soothing. The goats love it.’
Her lips twist as she tries not to laugh. ‘That’s what that looked like. Maybe I can try it tomorrow,’ she suggests.
‘Certainly. I’ll make sure we have our best goat ready for you. Her name is Gloria. I didn’t catch your name,’ I say. ‘You must be…actually, I was expecting four guests. I’m thinking you’re not Albert, sixty-five, from Devizes?’
She laughs. ‘I’m not. I’m not on the list, I was a last-minute addition. My name is Chloe.’
She puts her hand out for me to shake and I extend mine. Hearing her name again, having her here, right here in front of me, her fingers wrapped around mine, it’s like my heart is singing, loudly, with wild abandon, without knowing any of the words. We stop for a moment and I take her in, remembering every line and curve, the shape of her eyes that go large and almond-shaped when she’s quiet.
‘Can I ask how you heard about us?’ I say, trying to fill this moment with words, any words.
