‘Don’t get me wrong, Lorenzo was a happy person,’ Miguel says. ‘His happiness and glow were like the sun. He was kind, he partied a lot and he had a good, good life, but I think he had sadness in his last year. Regrets. He was always jealous of his sister because she had all the family and he had?—’
‘He had you…and Marcus.’
‘But you know what I mean. He ended up alone and he doesn’t want that for you.’
It gives me a pang of sorrow to think of Uncle Lorenzo like that, to know that he saw that same solitude in me. We didn’t see him very often, and I always imagined him as a perennial party animal, happy with his lifestyle and permanently surrounded by friends. I think of his letter, his legacy and all that he wished for my sisters and me. I lean over and give Miguel a huge hug. ‘Thank you for being here, for your presence, your generosity. I love you, Miguel.’
He returns the hug firmly, holding it for a moment. ‘Love you too, beautiful boy. Life doesn’t have to be so serious, you know? You are always thinking, always giving. Have time for Benji too. I know this retreat is for the ladies, but you know, let go, enjoy, enjoy. Have Benji time! Try the plug for the butt. I think you like!’ Miguel grins.
‘I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to interrupt…I…’
We both turn to see Chloe standing by the doorway to the villa. She’s wearing the same black shift dress she wore for dinner yesterday. Her eyes dart between us. Her mousey hair hangs in loose curls around her face and she wears sandals on her feet, giving the impression of effortless chic. I smile instantly to see her.
‘You’re not interrupting,’ I say, trying to catch her eye.
‘Miguel told us to be ready for seven and I’m here. I think the others are just coming too. Do I need a bag? Am I good in sandals?’ she asks.
‘You are a vision, a goddess!’ Miguel replies and she does an awkward little curtsey.
‘Seven?’ I ask Miguel, switching back to look at him.
‘Oh, yes…we are going out, remember. You are coming out too, yes?’ he says.
‘Do I have to?’ I say.
‘Yes, you must!’ he orders, not before gently slapping my bum. I am secure enough in my sexuality that I don’t care, but I have been slapped a lot by him recently.
‘Then I guess I’m coming out…’ I look over to where Chloe was standing to see if this is an exciting prospect for her, but she seems to have disappeared. I turn back to Miguel, confused. ‘And where exactly are we going?’
‘To heaven,’ he says dramatically.
‘Is it on Google Maps?’ I ask.
He laughs. ‘Hey, the Salsa is here!’
‘Is there going to be salsa at this party?’ I ask. I could dance salsa, I think. I could also eat salsa.
‘No, look…’ Miguel points to the kitchen where that damned cat is sitting at the door like she owns the place. ‘I haven’t seen her in ages. I thought she went to live in the wild with the goats.’
‘Did Chloe tell you the name she’s given her then?’ I say.
He looks at me strangely. ‘What? No, your Uncle Lorenzo called her that. She is a saucy cat, very flirty.’
‘But…’ I look back at the space where Chloe was standing and then back at that cat.Really?The cat smirks at me. I don’t like you. And Salsa remains a really terrible name for a cat.
15
CHLOE
This time last week, I was sitting in my flat overlooking the Stoke Newington Road, eating a ready-meal lasagne off my kitchen counter and reading the ingredients list to try to guess the number of calories in it. I was five hundred off. I wasn’t completely sad. I paired it with one of those tins of wine. It’s what I do. I don’t even know how to sit down and decompress. I stand there at my kitchen counter and eat and scroll through my phone, watching videos of people interviewing couples in the street and asking them how they met. Often, it turns out that they met twenty years ago at a wedding and her favourite thing about him is that he’s kind and shows up for her. That’s when I cry over my lasagne.
But now I am in Ibiza. I am standing on a clifftop overlooking a beach at sunset; the sky is a cocktail of twenty different neon colours, from peach to pink; someone has lit a giant bonfire and crowds of revellers are drinking and jumping around to dance music. Would I say this is my usual scene? Probably not. I haven’t really done nightclubs since I was at university, there are too many people and not enough light, but if the last two dayshave taught me anything, it’s that I should take more chances, allow myself to be surprised and soak it all up.
‘Chloe, take some pictures of me. I have to show my kids that I was here and I was cool for one moment in time,’ Zara says, handing me her phone.
Miguel was very vague about where we were headed tonight so Zara’s in a white vest and denim cutoffs, a beaded handbag over her shoulder, whereas Jess is wearing a black maxi dress and trainers. Someone runs past us in a fishnet top, silver swimming trunks and a rainbow sweatband; we follow their figure curiously down the rocky path.
‘I feel overdressed,’ Jess says.
