''You see? He's just floating.'
''Maybe he's having a kip?' I proffer.
''Of course he's not. He seems anxious.'
How in heaven's name my son can determine the anxiety of a suspended black dot is beyond my imagination. The sea monkey fad, currently all the rage in the UK, was brought to us in the mountains by his godmother, Jane, from London, who supplied Ollie with a tank, instant life crystals and a packet of live sea monkey eggs. These creatures, a hybrid of the brine shrimp which never grows beyond the size of a vertically challenged ant, have now multiplied in the tank and keep Ollie busy for hours. He dumps the diminutive tank on the kitchen table in front of us in an attempt to gain our attention and, waking up the kittens, carries both in his arms up to his room.
'Maybe he can run your cattery?' Alan says dryly.
'I'm banking on it.'
He gets up and stretches. 'Look, I'd better get going. I can drop Ollie off at Nancy's on the way.'
The locally celebrated elderly American artist, Nancy Golding, has for the last year taken Ollie under her wing. She's the grandmother he never had and together they read, draw and swap stories and jokes.
I'm pouring fresh water into the tank of sea monkeys when Alan heads for the front door sporting casual golf attire. He wheels a set of clubs behind him, in the side pocket of which he has tried to secrete a title by Patrick Leigh Fermor.
'You're not going to have time to read,' I quip.
Ollie has packed his own rucksack of pencils, paper, books and games. He carries this bag everywhere with him, rather like his godfather, Ed, with the MEK. I'll worry when he starts popping in medicinal curatives. I wave them off and potter downstairs to the cool botiga, our cellar, which now serves as a guest room and my dugout when free of visitors. I like writing down there because the French doors open directly onto the orchard and the peace is almost tangible.
While I tap away at the keyboard I am suddenly aware of a sharp, tinkling sound coming from the entrada. For a moment I hold my breath, thinking that one of our phantom sheep has returned, but the noise continues with the same methodical tink, tink. It hasn't the whiff of a sheep about it. Very quietly I open the door and tiptoe barefooted up the cellar stairs. In the entrada Orlando, one of our new kittens, is standing by the open front door making a strange rasping noise. I wonder if he's choking, but he suddenly releases his jaw and a shiny marble bounces onto the stone floor. As soon as it's free, he chases it like a demon around the entrada, finally propelling it into the garden. He follows it into the sun but returns a second later, defeated. The marble has disappeared. Enterprisingly he creeps up the stairs to Ollie's bedroom, oblivious to me tracking his movements, and helps himself with a paw and jaw to another marble from the large jar on the dresser. The marble thief has been caught in the act! For some time I watch him happily repeating the exercise until I count that four marbles have been pilfered and lost. I decide enough is enough and remove the jar and hide it in Ollie's wardrobe. Orlando looks forlorn and, with a plaintive mewl, pads off to the front garden where I predict he'll sit drooling at the side of the fish pond until mealtime.
The light is fading as I reach Nancy Golding's modest apartment block on a cluttered side street a few minutes walk from the main plaça. Her name is brightly illuminated in oxtail brown italics above her bell and as I press it, I hear the familiar low growl of her Irish terrier, Rosie, from the open first-floor window. A moment later Nancy speaks huskily into the intercom.
'Come on up.'
There's a click and the heavy door opens a fraction, allowing me to turn the handle and enter the stark hallway. Rosie has been unleashed and, with tail wagging and tongue lolling, dashes down the steps towards me. I bend down to fondle her and in so doing spill the contents of my straw shoulder bag on the floor. I sit clearing up the mess. Nancy has walked falteringly from her apartment to the upper landing and leans over the banister looking down at me with a sublime smile on her face.
'Now that's the sort of thing I thought you only ever did at my age.'
I hoist myself off the floor and plod up the stairs to greet her. Inside the cluttered flat we enter her studio, a child's paradise full of boxes overflowing with brightly coloured pens, pencils and brushes and assorted canvasses daubed with rich paint, stacked precariously against cupboards and chairs. The walls are suffocated with random photos, newspaper clippings and handwritten scribblings and on the large, paintsmeared table on which she works, Post-its with indecipherable jottings litter the surface. Ollie sits quietly at the table painting, barely acknowledging my presence when I appear.
'Take a seat, dear,' she says in her easy drawl. 'I'll fix us both a drink.'
'Let me do it.'
'I may be decrepit, but even I'm good for opening a bottle.'
She gives a girlish laugh, revealing an immaculate set of white teeth. The sculptured face with its ivory skin and luxurious, thick black lashes reminds me of the flawless complexion of a Victorian doll.
She patters off into the kitchen returning with two glasses of white Rioja. Settling them on the table, she leans over and whispers to Ollie. He nods and wanders out of the studio, reappearing with a large glass of juice and some crisps. We sip at our wine, watching the gathering dusk beyond her window.
'So, how far have you got with the exhibition?'
She clasps her hands together, the heavy amber stone rings seeming incongruous on her long thin fingers.
'I'm about halfway finished. You can take a look if you like.'
She gets up slowly and shuffles over to a large stack of canvasses.
'Here, take a peek at these.'
I study each one carefully, alighting on a haunting work in shades of gold and purple, overlaid with slivers of silver and gold foil. It has a whiff of Klimt about it. Nancy bobs her head over my shoulder.
'I've called that In the Land of the Mayans. You like it?'
'Very much.'
'It'll be waiting for you at the gallery.'
I laugh. 'I'll have to start saving.'
As is customary when visiting Nancy, I wander around the studio, invading her private domain, reading postcards, scrutinising old photos and random poems. She never minds, often following behind and enlightening me, yet again, on the content of each one.
I met Nancy a year ago when she was exhibiting at a local gallery. Barely able to walk as a result of a recent operation, she sat regally in a corner clad in a striking fedora and chic black dress. At her neck a riot of jade played with the light and chunky amber stones swallowed up the fingers on both hands. Along with other guests and the town's mayor, I waited patiently to pay homage to the queen of art as she sipped delicately from a flute of cava and chatted in a bright and breezy manner with those nearest her. We have been firm friends ever since.
Nancy stifles a sneeze.
'Are you cold?'
'That's the darn thing. It can be blazing outside, but it's like a morgue inside.'
'I can bring round some blankets or a heater.'
'Bless you, but I'm all right,' she titters. 'I just pile on the jumpers if needs be. Besides, aren't we painters supposed to suffer for our art?'
Nancy was one of the exotic early pioneers who in the sixties swapped the fast lane for a frugal and yet more enriching existence in rural Mallorca, and never left. Despite severe arthritis, she hasn't the funds to move from her drab and drafty first floor apartment in the centre of Sóller. She bends down and, with a giggle, gives me a flyer for her next exhibition. As usual it is a humorous self portrait.
'I don't know why, but every time I draw a new one of these, the wrinkles keep getting deeper.'
Ollie comes over to look and strokes her hair. She smiles up at him and pats his hand.
'I'm hoping this exhibition will set me up for the winter, you know, pay the rent and keep me in hooch.'
Despite the wry humour, I worry about her living alone in this dank dwelling, especially in the winter, but it's cheap and central and the large stud
io is ideal for her painting. We finish our drinks.
'Don't worry about me. I've survived far worse than this and that's only half the story.'
Her tinkling laughter fills the room. Ollie and I say our goodbyes and make our way out onto the street. I open the car door and he jumps into the passenger seat clutching a photo of an otter, Nancy's favoured animal, and two of his own oeuvres. As I put my bag in the back seat, I suddenly hear her calling me. Nancy is leaning out of her window.
'Hey, tell my furry friends that I'll be down with some scraps later.'
She waves and closes the shutter.
I turn to the huddle of scrawny cats by the bins but their eyes are already trained on the shuttered window above. I hesitate for an instant, but then head off home, certain that Nancy's feline groupies will have listened to her every word.
I am in the basement working at the computer when Rachel calls.
'Good news!'
She's a clever psychologist, my MD. Whenever she has anything to impart that requires my wholehearted support she greets me with an item of good news first. It's a wonderful way of lulling me into a false sense of security.
'What's good?'
'Aside from The Glade Hotel pitch next month, The Stationery Office has come back to say they'd like to meet us about the Crown jewels book. They were impressed with our preliminary proposal.'
Inexplicably, I feel a huge surge of excitement. Before starting my own agency I worked for the Guinness World Records and lived and breathed the book. It isn't remotely the same sort of publication, but it's another one-off, a rather eccentric work of art created by academics, something of substance. This could be the final big, prestigious project, my glorious swansong from the world of luxury PR. However, I shan't be sharing these thoughts with Rachel just yet.
'Are you still there?'
'Sorry, Rachel. I was just thinking.'
'I've warned you about that.' She gives a hoarse laugh. 'Now, can you put together a presentation? I'd do it, but this is your baby.'
'Leave it with me.'
'Excellent. Well if we play our cards right, we could be winning two new clients next month. Wouldn't that be fab?'
It's late evening as we sit by the pool drinking herbes, the local Mallorcan herbal digestif. A fat ivory candle glimmers from the belly of a wrought-iron elephant sitting in the centre of the old Moroccan table. Here and there in the deep blue circular mosaic pattern, tiny slivers of coloured stone are missing, casualties perhaps of torrential rain during one of our inclement winters. Underneath the table my bare foot brushes the rough leather of a discarded sandal. Its owner is Pep who lies back in his chair, replete and patting his stomach.
'I've eaten too much.'
'What do you expect, eating two slices of lemon tart?' says Juana.
'As usual my wife is very sympathetic.'
Ignoring him, she tosses her head back and stares up at the sky. 'You can almost kiss the stars. It's so peaceful here.'
'Not for long.' Alan gives Pep a meaningful look.
'Why?' she asks.
'Well, once Pep and I have built our corrals, the cocks will be crowing.'
'Yes, and if your mad wife opens this cattery, you'll have loud caterwauling night and day.'
Over supper, Pep, like Alan, has already expressed his misgivings about my cattery concept and so I don't want to encourage further discussion now.
'Leave my cats alone. They'd be as good as gold.'
'Yes,' says Juana. 'At least they'd be contained. I'm not sure about having a corral with hens running about all over the place.'
Alan exhales smoke and props his puro against the ashtray in front of him. 'Oh come on, Juana. That's absurd! You want fresh eggs, don't you?'
'Yes, but not at the expense of sleep.'
'Per favor!' exclaims Pep. 'We're going with Ramon to buy the pullets next month and that's the end of it.'
Catalina's husband, Ramon, is a bit of a hen expert, having a corral of his own, and has promised to organise a boy's trip to the livestock market in Sineu once Alan and Pep have their corrals constructed.
'I'm surprised you'll have time for your hens with all this acting and looking after our holiday flat,' says Juana crisply.
'Well, I think that advert was a one-off. To be honest, all that hanging around on the golf course was a bit boring.'
'Maybe next time you can get a speaking role instead of driving a buggy around in the background,' I say.
Pep tries to stifle a laugh. 'Yes, near, rather than distant talent.'
Orlando does a sweep of the table, brushing up against the legs of Pep and Juana.
'You don't need to open a cattery. Look at all these flea-bitten cats you're already feeding for free,' goads Pep.
Alan picks up Orlando, whose thick, fluffy grey fur gives him more the appearance of a bear cub than a kitten. Wincing at the candlelight, his little paws paddle in the air until Alan sets him on the ground again.
'This one's a mischief. He's been stealing Ollie's marbles. We've had to hide them.'
'You see,' says Pep theatrically, 'They can't be trusted like dogs. You know, in some of the nearby villages, they lay down poison twice a year to get rid of the strays.'
I try not to rise to the bait.
Juana is embarrassed. 'It's horrible, but what do you do? They breed so quickly and no one takes responsibility.'
'You mean that we don't cut off their collons.'
Juana gives him a kick. 'Don't be so crude.'
'It's true,' Pep shrugs. 'We Mallorcans think it's cruel to turn our cats into eunuchs.'
'You think it's kinder to poison them instead?'
Pep sits up in his chair and squeezes my arm. 'Actually, no I don't. Not at all.'
Alan gives a small cough and re-lights his cigar. 'It's a full moon,' he murmurs.
'So,' I say, gulping down a bubble of irritation, 'when do your first holiday tenants arrive?'
'Mid July,' says Pep, perking up. 'I'm surprised Alan hasn't told you. It's a nice group of Swedish girls.'
'A hen party?'
He gives me a wicked grin. 'No, a birthday celebration, I believe. There'll be five of them. I'm sad I won't be here to help out.'
'Where are you going?'
Alan answers for him. 'Pep's on a business trip to Switzerland.'
'So he says,' Juana scoffs. 'I can't think why any bank would give him consultancy work. I never see any of the money, that's for sure.'
'That's because I leave it in Switzerland where you can't get your paws on it.'
Alan puts his arm round Juana's shoulders. 'He's a devil!'
'You're telling me?'
There's a shrill ringing from the house.
'Someone must be at the front gate. It's a bit late.'
Alan gets up and saunters into the kitchen, releasing the front gate's electronic catch. Moments later he cheerfully welcomes two hazy figures at the front door and ushers them through the entrada and into the garden. It is our nearest neighbours, Wolfgang and Helge, who live most of the year in Berlin, hopping back and forth to the island for short holidays. Ollie is always delighted when they arrive because Helge plays football with him while Wolfgang spends many an evening sitting on his terrace teaching him card games. Our dinners together are a chaotic and entertaining verbal mixture of German, English, Spanish and Russian.
'Where is my little Ollie?' cries Helge in Spanish, given that she speaks no English.
'In bed, I'm afraid.'
I usher her to a chair.
Pep gets up and pads, shoeless, into the kitchen and helps himself to some glasses from a kitchen cupboard. He returns and pours them both a drink. Alan hovers by the kitchen door, puffing on his cigar.
'So', says Wolfgang, with a solemn face as he settles into his chair next to Juana. 'What's with the Berlin Wall?'
We all look puzzled.
'You have built a new wall and gate,' says Helge softly.
Alan puts his hand on Wolfgang's shoulder. 'But
it's only a low wall. While you've been away we've had a terrible problem with sheep… '
Wolfgang shakes his head, mirth crinkling his face. He turns and gives Alan a good-natured punch on the arm. 'You know, even after all this time, you British still don't know when a German is making a joke.'
SIX
THE PERFECT PITCH
Tuesday 7 a.m., Audley Square
I pull back the metallic doors of the lift and swing straight into Bernadette's arms. She staggers back, a look of surprise on her face. I notice that she's wearing a light raincoat, but there's no evidence of an umbrella.
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 9
