‘You made Renata salsa?’ I ask, surprised.
‘No, Salsa the cat. I heard you that night when you were naming her.’
I did name that cat. I smile because I think it’s an excellent name.
‘Her almonds are excellent. And we’ve just become good neighbours. She calls me sometimes to move heavy things. I make her bread,’ he tells me.
He’s good with old people. I guess that’s his thing given his relationship with Miguel, but he’s so incredibly warm: every interaction, every smile.
‘It figures that you would go into hospitality then,’ I say. ‘You’re very good at it, being friendly and welcoming, looking after people.’ I hold my breath, hoping the compliment isn’t an overstep.
‘I am? I guess. I think it’s being raised by a Spanish mother, being surrounded by food and family. It must be in the blood,’ he tells me.
‘Is that why you started your restaurant?’ I ask him.
‘It was. Mum was big on home cooking. We used to come out here every summer and Uncle Lorenzo would put on these massive feasts for us, huge plates of local food bursting withfreshness and flavour. I wanted to bring that vibe and style of cooking and eating to London.’
‘Well, I’m sold. I shall pay a visit on my return. Do you miss the restaurant?’ I ask.
He looks out over Renata’s fields to the view framed by the bright blue sky. ‘I am very proud of it. But recently it’s been less about the food, more about Instagram foodies, constant bills and people having sex in my toilets,’ he jokes.
‘Because your food is so good?’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Maybe. But I’m less sold on the stress of it, the way it ate into every part of my life,’ he says, nodding. ‘It’s hard work.’
I raise my hands. ‘Oh, we’ve had this conversation. Workaholics unite,’ I joke.
‘I’m not a workaholic, I work hard. There’s a difference,’ Ben mimics back at me.
I laugh, narrowing my eyes at him. These little flecks of his life intrigue me: they make him real. But it’s strange to think of this man in his shorts and cap, with his sun-kissed skin, existing in grey, busy London. I wonder if he questions that London life too.
‘There’s something for the architect,’ he says, pointing out into the field, past a few bushes. ‘That’s a stone shepherd’s hut. Acasetaorrefugi.’
I shift my gaze to where he’s pointing and see a circular hut built with large stones and with a roof coiled into a hive shape. I love the patterns, the simple construction, the way it blends into the environment. ‘Are there many shepherds around here?’ I ask.
‘They’re just remnants of what the area was once used for. It’s likely empty, more for passing hikers or so goats can take cover from the elements,’ he explains.
‘Can we have a look?’ I ask, crossing over to the fence before he has time to say yes.
Ben follows me as I approach it, peering inside to check it really is empty. I’m on the alert for snakes. Inside, I like how the gaps in the stone create webs of light in the dark interior.
Ben watches me as I look around and run my fingers along the stone. ‘I think I need to bring the architect to fancier buildings,’ he jokes.
‘Nah, I like this. I like buildings with a story, a purpose,’ I say. ‘Like your uncle’s house. The history is beautiful and I like how he kept the original features, that he’s added but not taken away. The way this roof is constructed, it’s corbelled, you see the layers, how it rises into a cone shape?’
He stops for a moment, listening and studying my face. ‘It doesn’t take a lot to make you happy, does it?’ he asks, smiling.
‘Yep. I’m easy like that,’ I say. That was the wrong turn of phrase but I’m happy that he laughs. I turn and Ben looks at me with the same look he gave me when I fell into his arms when the goats came for me in the yard. I don’t quite understand this feeling, this tension. It shouldn’t feel like this.
‘What does the corbelled roof do?’ he asks.
‘It helps water drain and it circulates the heat.’ As I say the words, I pray it can do that:circulate the heat please.
‘It’s not doing a very good job,’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
Why is my mouth dry?I catch Ben’s eye and smile, his hair is all tousled, a day’s worth of stubble lines his jaw. This is ill-advised, especially because I like Miguel. I don’t want to get caught in the middle of their relationship.
