‘It’s giving stoned Scooby Doo,’ she says, smiling broadly.
‘Flo!’ I say trying to ignore my eldest sister, and admiring Flo’s floral dress and trainers. ‘How have your survived travelling with these two?’
‘With noise-cancelling headphones,’ she replies, giving me a warm hug and looking up to the sky. ‘Look at you. Look at this place. God, it even still smells the same. I love this. I love being here.’
They all simultaneously tip their heads towards the bright blue sky, appreciating the lack of clouds. I see their shoulders relax. That’s the power of Ibiza – it’s brightly peaceful but also jubilant. People come here to relax but they also come to party, to explore its clubs and beaches and let their everyday lives melt away. I see its different dimensions in the flights arriving now, groups of partygoing stags in matching T-shirts emerge from the airport alongside kaftan-wearing ladies with big sunglasses who are heading to mountain yoga retreats where they will find themselves under a tree, drink cacao and take part in sound baths.
‘So, tell us what’s happening…’ Norah says curiously. ‘Is this car a rental? How’s the villa? Is it the same? Did you find money stuffed in mattresses?’
‘Stuff, stuff has been happening,’ I say coyly. ‘The SEAT Ibiza is mine.’
‘It’s pretty,’ Phoebe says, taking in its yellow tones. ‘So citrus. Define “stuff”.’
‘You’ve seen the photos,’ I say, urging them to line their bags up by the car. ‘The place was run-down when I got here, the pool was empty and to be fair, the house was a living reminder of Uncle Lorenzo’s party antics. So, I’ve gone all DIY-makeover man…’ I flex an arm. This impresses no one.
‘Hence the chunky boots,’ Flo says, scanning down and judging my overall outfit.
‘You look…’ Norah says, studying my face, ‘…well.’
‘I am,’ I say, trying to organise their bags in the boot.
‘Sort of healthy,’ Phoebe continues. ‘Not like some restaurant troll who lives off stress and mashed potatoes.’ She pats my cheeks.
I don’t deny that the change of routine and location has been good for me. I’ve had time to take a breath, to swim, to eat a meal sitting down instead of standing next to a kitchen counter. I’m glad it’s been noticed.
‘Is there a girl involved too?’ Flo says as they all side-eye each other. ‘We’ve got bets going that you’ve met someone and she’s ensnared you. We think that’s why you’ve taken so long to come back.’
I look at all of them spying me suspiciously.Bets. This means gossip and interference in their only brother’s love life. I am familiar with this. I’ve been familiar with this since forever. They make it their life’s preoccupation to set me up and know everything about who I may be dating.No one wants you to be the lonely old uncle at parties who lives on their own and wanks into a sock every night, Phoebe once drunkenly said.
‘There might be someone,’ I say.
Norah screams and playfully slaps me across the back. ‘I TOLD YOU TWO!’ she shouts at Flo and Phoebe.
‘Her name is Gloria,’ I say.
‘Ooooh, like Estefan!’ Flo chips in, showing her age.
‘Yes, I’m dating Gloria Estefan,’ I say, nodding.
‘DATING?’ they all say in chorus.
‘Urgh, get in the car. Let me introduce you.’
The last time we were all at Uncle Lorenzo’s was my twenty-first birthday, nearly six years ago. When we arrived, Uncle Lorenzo was stood by the gates in head-to-toe white linen like Ibiza Jesus. The pool was filled with giant flamingo inflatables, champagne was waiting on ice, house music boomed out of the windows, and a small crowd of near-naked people was waiting for us. One of the women had boobs like a shelf.
I wish I could tell you more about those four days but all I remember is that Phoebe shaved her head, Flo and Norah got matching tattoos, and after the party I woke up poolside, wrapped in towels, completely naked and wearing one shoe. It wasn’t even my shoe. I was so hungover, I thought I’d thrown up a lung. Phoebe had just turned eighteen and I’m not sure she slept for most of those four days, pushing through her exhaustion on a mixture of party drugs and alcohol. When she returned home bald, with an eye twitch and a UTI, Mum banned us from coming here again. But even though we were adults with free will, life also got in the way. Bills, babies, university, work and families suddenly put a stop to all our magical visits.
‘You’re all very quiet,’ I say as we now stand together looking up at the villa’s white stone walls, set against the bluest of skies. I thought they might be more excited. I made sangria and canapés. I thought they might jump straight in the pool like we did when we were kids. ‘Is it good quiet or bad quiet?’
Norah sits down on a sun lounger, looking out at the sea and up at the bedroom balconies that look over the pool patio. ‘Ben. You sent us pictures. This place looked haunted and run-down. The gates looked like tetanus waiting to happen. There were creatures living in the pool.’
‘Frogs,’ I explain. ‘I rehomed them. I cleaned it. I got a pool guy. Lots of help.’
Norah was right. I inherited a money pit, somewhere that was run-down and housed a good few months’ worth of dust andweeds, but it’s amazing what you can get done in two months with no interruptions and beautiful weather. The manual labour was cathartic; I also explored the island and spent quiet afternoons indoors going through boxes of Uncle Lorenzo’s belongings, photo albums and paintings. I painted, I scrubbed, I grouted. I landscaped the gardens and realised that I also liked the power of a strimmer.
Flo wipes a tear from below her sunglasses, cradling her glass in her hands. ‘It’s perfect, Benny. Just like I remember it. You’ve done so well.’
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘I just had a tidy up. This place has old if solid bones.’
