by Kitty Sewell
She opened the flap and took out the card. A Barbie-doll caricature of a flirty girl in a pink dress and mile-long eyelashes (that just had to be Sebastian’s purchase, surely Eva wouldn’t sink that low) topped with a glittery Happy Eighteenth Birthday. And a message from her bro: So sorry, love. Neither of us could wait for the birthday-girl to wake up. But we’ll be home early to celebrate and take you out for a slapup dinner. Get your gladrags out, girl. Let’s whoop it up! Tons of Love, Sebastian and Eva.
Gladrags? What the hell were those? She didn’t do glad clothes. Furthermore, she didn’t do slapup or whoop-it-up. The whole affair, with the cheery camaraderie and the singing would be exceedingly trying, especially if the lovebirds weren’t talking to each other (though she’d heard some promising noises last night). Perhaps she could fake illness and get a rain-check, or better still, insist they go to a seedy bar in Irish Town and get rat-arsed. It ought to be her choice, right? It was her birthday.
Even while these thoughts circulated, she was touched. The pink smily girl almost made her choke with sadness.
She tossed the card onto her bed and ventured out into the kitchen. The aroma of freshly made coffee filled the air. At the counter she saw the cup placed ready beside the coffee maker. No milk, no sugar; she liked it black. There was a plate of fresh croissants and a wedge of cake with a little candle stuck on it. Beside the wedge was a lighter. The corners of her mouth pulled upwards a little. Well, hell, it was kind of sweet. She poured the coffee, lit the candle and sat at the table.
She’d just wolfed the last of the delicious cake when there was an insistent knocking on the door. She flinched, then wondered if this could have anything to do with her Big Day. Would mother have bothered, perchance? Hardly! Not after receiving her terminal texted message. There was aunt Beth and gay cousin Raymond, they sometimes sent cards, and there was a relative in Seville, her Spanish grandfather’s cousin’s son. He had no children of his own and had a soft spot for Sebastian in particular, and for her too, though he didn’t understand the feminine species at all, being a bachelor. At any rate, it was rare that someone came knocking. So the postman, possibly, with something that didn’t fit through the letterbox.
She glanced down at her knickers and T-shirt. Well, it was still summer, wasn’t it? She’d seen women crossing the street in bikinis.
Opening the door, all she could see was roses. Very dark red roses, so dark they were verging on black. There seemed to be dozens of them and she bent sideways to see who was the bearer of these, though knew that it could be none other than Carlo.
‘My respect and compliments on a very significant day,’ he said.
She was overwhelmed but caught the fine nuance of what he’d said. Not ‘Happy Birthday’ but ‘respect and compliments’. She felt instantly valued. And ‘significant’ was the most appropriate word for the day. It was highly significant…its meaning seeped through her and lengthened her spine.
The roses, the first ones ever given to her, were divine. Nothing pretty or romantic about them, they were almost sinister. On the verge of opening, the petals were firm and moist with tiny droplets, as if they’d been dipped in blood. Carlo watched her while she stared at them with glazed eyes.
‘Wow!’ She found her voice. ‘Well, thank you. I’ve never seen roses like that. How the hell did you know it was my birthday?’
‘When you care about someone, you just know these things.’
They were still standing on the threshold, and Carlo rested the roses in the crook of his arm. ‘My God, come in,’ she said. ‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll see what sort of thing we have to put these in. They need a bucket, I think.’
He followed her and in the kitchen laid the bouquet on the table, on top of Sebastian’s many drawings. Carefully she unwrapped the beautiful paper enfolding the roses. They had long stems with vicious thorns.
‘They represent you,’ Carlo said, reaching out to stroke her cheek. ‘Their dark moist beauty combined with the danger of their barbs, an intriguing and challenging mix.’
She looked at him, wide eyed. Oh God…this man cut right through everything and saw the raw essence of her, or else he just had a bloody good way with words.
‘You think you know me so well?’ she said with a little laugh. ‘Let me go and put something decent on.’
When she came back he took her gently by the shoulders and pulled her to him. He smelled of some musky aftershave. She allowed herself to be hugged. He was slim but solid, and it felt good. When her arms went around his waist she could feel him hardening against her, and her own body responded with a sudden rush.
He pulled away too soon. ‘Let’s put these roses in some water,’ he said, flustered. ‘Where did Esther keep her buckets?’
She smiled as she went into the larder to get the pewter wine-cooler. All that holier-than-thou talk of chastity and prayer; when it came down to physical contact, the body did all the talking.
They did it together, pulling the roses apart one by one carefully, so as not to damage their perfection. Carlo showed her how the stems should have a fresh cut, diagonally, with very sharp scissors under a stream of water from the tap. Preferably the wound of the stem should not come into contact with air at all. They worked in silence for a while, arranging the roses.
‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot,’ he said quietly. ‘I respect the fact that you’ve not come to see me. It shows wisdom and self-restraint. Myself, I’ve been praying, waging battle with my feelings. I wonder if you’ve been sent to test me.’
‘Aren’t there some guidelines?’ Mimi said with a chuckle. ‘There’s got to be a manual or something?’
He did see the funny side. Laughing, he took her hand in both of his, then pressed it to his lips. ‘You’re very pragmatic.’
‘Pragmatic,’ she repeated, memorising it. ‘What does it mean?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Practical, no nonsense and down-to-earth. I do admire that about you, Imogen. Young as you are, you can certainly teach an old dog some new tricks.’
She could think of a brazen riposte but thought better of it. They finished the floral arrangement and stood looking at it for a moment. ‘So what are your plans for the big day?’ he asked.
‘Sebastian and Eva are taking me out for dinner,’ she said.
‘That sounds nice.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Listen, Imogen. Remember me telling you about my little place in Both Worlds. Why don’t you and I celebrate your birthday tomorrow? I’ll put champagne on ice and bring some nice food, and we can eat to the sound of waves. I’ll set it all up and you can come over midmorning. I’ll order a taxi for you and prepay it. Would you like that?’
‘Well,’ she said, uncertain. ‘It sounds…nice.’
He flushed a little. ‘Don’t worry. I’d just like you to see my retreat and give you a special birthday lunch.’
She scrutinised his face for ulterior motives, but he looked so sincere – nervous, almost – like a young lad arranging his first date. She felt reassured. Carlo thought champagne and the sounds of waves rolling up on the beach would make her feel special. It seemed like good old-fashioned romanticism.
‘So will you come?’ he said, holding out a slip of paper with an address.
‘Yes, okay, I’ll come.’
‘I’ll tell the taxi to be here at 10.30 sharp.’
Alone in the kitchen, she studied the roses for a moment. She touched her thumb to one of the thorns. The sharp sting left a budding pearl of blood.
*
For old times’ sake, they had a drink on the Wisteria Terrace of the Rock Hotel. She had to concede that it was quite special: ‘iconic’ was the word the brochures used, shaded by vines and large palm trees through which you glimpse the busy harbour. Winston Churchill had sat there, and a whole bunch of other famous people, such as Hemingway, Sean Connery, Alec Guinness and the Prince of Wales.
The gladrags she’d managed comprised a short black dress with a silver collar. Her only semi-eleg
ant shoes were a pair of flipflops dotted with tiny black skulls (a find from Carnaby Street). After some deliberation, she removed the safety pin from her eyebrow and three of the rings in each ear. Yes, that did make her look more sophisticated, more like a grown up.
The old waiter recognised them instantly and kissed her and Eva on both cheeks. Sebastian had to blabber about her birthday and the waiter brought her a pink (not again!) concoction with little umbrellas and flowers and other junk, very obviously alcohol free. And there she was, about to order a double Bombay Gin with three droplets of tonic. Eva ordered it on her behalf and – ooops! – the pink drink accidentally got tipped into the flowerbed.
She couldn’t deny to herself how relieved she was that Eva and Sebastian were back to being lovebirds. They were holding hands, looking relaxed and starry eyed, and she didn’t begrudge them it, even if it was her birthday. Sebastian had clearly made up his mind to have a break from his sobriety. She just hoped he was going to remember that booze interfered with his medication. Anyway, he was in fine form, telling tall stories about Papito in Seville. He was a great mimic and could sound just like un Sevillano with very bad English. Mimi and Eva giggled helplessly.
When they’d had three rounds of drinks, they staggered, arm in arm, down through the enchanted Alameda Gardens. They aimed seaward through the tunnels of lush vegetation and those fairytale Dragon trees with their fat upside-down dragon legs reaching for the sky. Mimi tilted her head to look upward and saw the cable car zooming past. A flash caught the corner of her eye and she turned her head. She just caught a glimpse of a yellow Nike trainer. She’d seen those before.
Was the kid still at it, doing Carlo’s bidding? Surely not? Well, let him report back that Imogen hung out in the Wisteria bar in her finery, that she’d put away oodles of Bombay Gin and could drink Churchill and Hemingway under the table.
They exited the park and wandered down to Rosia road, where apparently there was a local dive which served the best seafood in town. It was hardly marked as a restaurant, but the rickety tables outside gave it away. They were the first customers on the scene but as they sat down in the ‘yard’ and ordered, the place began to fill up as if on cue. Soon every table was taken – the whole place buzzing – and it became almost impossible to hail a waiter.
When they’d finished their plates of every fish in the seas, Eva slipped her a package from her handbag. She tore open the silver paper. Inside was an amazing silver necklace, a large star-shaped pendant studded by black onyx stones. It was just the sort of thing that Mimi would have chosen herself: not pretty – not even chic – but unique and distinctive.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s…just me.’
‘I thought so,’ said Eva with a smile.
‘OK, here goes,’ said Sebastian. ‘To use one of your own poignant expressions, I’ve fucked up.’ He pulled out a folded piece of glossy paper, torn out of a magazine or catalogue. He handed it to Mimi. ‘This is on order. They tell me you’ll have it in a couple of weeks.’
She unfolded the paper and looked at the picture. It was a scooter, a very futuristic kind of scooter in black and silver. She was speechless. ‘Gee, bro,’ she said.
‘I thought about a car,’ he said, ‘but who wants a car in Gibraltar? Everybody’s on a scooter. There’s a matching helmet to go with it. The damned helmet almost broke the bank. But it’s your head, and your head is precious.’ He reached over and tried to muss up the top of her hair. She leaned over to kiss him on his cheek. ‘Thank you, Sebastian. It’s a great present. Freedom of the road and all that.’
They drank a toast and – just as she was about to remind Sebastian that there would be absolutely no singing Happy Birthday in the restaurant – he stood up and bellowed it anyway, without a trace of embarrassment. ‘This amazing and beautiful eighteen-year-old girl is my precious sister,’ he boomed at the end. A few people were clapping. Oh, for fuck’s sakes! Mimi cringed, almost disappearing under the table.
‘I’m going to the loo,’ she hissed. ‘I might be a while.’
The Ladies was in an outside block, and there were several Yanito women queueing outside it. She took her place, then got impatient and wondered if she couldn’t just as well squat in the shrubbery at the back of the building. It was almost dark by now and there were no lights at the back. But just as she came around the corner to the carpark, someone took her lightly by the elbow. She’d had enough to drink not to be startled but she yanked her arm away and glared at her assailant.
‘Mohammed, honestly! What are you doing here?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I can’t believe Carlo wants you to spy on my birthday party. Are you counting my drinks, or what?’
‘Carlo doesn’t know I’m here,’ he said.
‘Well, if you’re freelancing, there’s nothing to report. This is just a family dinner. It’d be more fascinating to watch paint dry.’ She saw his shame and felt a sudden empathy. ‘Forget it, Mohammed. Come and join us for a drink?’
‘Oh, no. I don’t want to intrude…but listen,’ he took her elbow again and drew her further into the shadows. ‘You must not go to Both Worlds tomorrow. For your own sake, don’t go.’
She tried to see his expression in the darkness. ‘Why not?’
‘Just don’t go,’ he said. ‘Just trust me when I say this.’
She thought about his words for a moment. ‘Don’t worry so much about me, Mohammed. I appreciate it, but you know, I’m quite wily.’
‘What does that mean, wily?’ Mohammed asked impatiently.
‘What I mean is, I’m quite shrewd, quite street-smart. Do you know what I mean? I can look after myself, and I don’t do things I don’t want to do. Not as of today, for sure.’
Mohammed was like a dog with a bone. ‘Don’t go. Don’t go,’ he insisted.
‘But why?’ she said. ‘Just tell me why I shouldn’t.’
‘It’s not right…this interest he has in you.’
She peered at him through the shadows. ‘So why do you care?’
‘He made me go and buy things for tomorrow…’
‘So?’
‘Things he was too embarrassed to buy himself.’
‘Things?’ She was astonished. ‘You mean—?’
‘Yes, things,’ Mohammed insisted.
Did Carlo really hope for something? More likely, he just wanted to make absolutely sure that if there was a chastity breakdown he had a moral obligation to be prepared.
She reached out to touch Mohammed’s cheek. No hair grew on it; it was smooth as a baby’s. ‘How old are you Mohammed?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Same as me, then. I know you are trying to be protective – and I really appreciate it – but I’ll be fine. Carlo is not a mad rapist; he just likes me.’ Her hand went to his hair. It was much finer and softer than it looked. Mohammed reached out to touch her face in turn. She took a step forward and enveloped him in her arms. The boy stood motionless for a long moment, his arms around her shoulders. Then, to her horror, he started to cry. She kept smoothing his hair, and whispered, ‘There, there. Everything’s cool.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he said between sniffles. ‘I want to keep you safe, and now I have helped to put you in danger.’
She could see his dilemma. The very employer on whose goodwill he depended was plotting to corrupt the girl he fancied. How to explain that if any corruption was going to happen, she was the more likely corruptor? ‘You don’t have to keep me safe. It’s not your responsibility.’
‘I’m sorry, Imogen. I’m a fool.’
They stood there a while longer, in that quiet embrace, Mohammed’s tears gradually drying up. She didn’t mind, suspecting it was himself he needed to save from the clutches of Carlo Montegriffo, but it was easier to project this need onto her, a defenceless girl. In any event, she’d enjoyed being party to a cuddle like this, with no expectations or gains or need for guilt or gratitude. She twirled the curls that grew on his neck arou
nd her fingers.
‘I really do need a pee,’ she said at last and released him. ‘Wait for me and then come and have a drink. My brother will love you, trust me. He so wants me to have friends my own age.’
Looking over at the toilets she saw the queue had gone. When she turned back to Mohammed, he’d scarpered. All she could see in the dark was a flash of yellow trainer, disappearing into the stunted olive trees behind the carpark.
When she got back to the table she could see that Sebastian was drunk. He’d obviously not bothered to keep count of his drinks and – being on this high of reconciliation – he seemed not to give a damn. His loud voice went on uninterrupted about this Azzopardi fellow that he liked so much, and how he was going to go to the guy’s house and advise him on a deck he wanted to build.
Mimi tried to ignore him, thinking of Mohammed and his concern for her. All at once she felt alarmed by tomorrow’s visit to Both Worlds. Maybe Mohammed was right about putting herself in danger. Of what…she wasn’t sure.
‘– And I told him why I don’t drive, too. I felt I could confide in the guy,’ rambled Sebastian drunkenly.
‘You did?’ said Eva, her eyes alert. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you don’t drive. I’m your best friend. You can confide in me, can’t you?’
Mimi quickly sat up and put her hand on Sebastian’s arm. ‘You’re drunk, bro. Why don’t you wait till tomorrow? Tell her in private.’
