‘Hold on.’ I picked up the phone. ‘I’m ordering our breakfast. Yes, I am. Shush!’ After giving all the details, and supplementing them with extra requests from Quin – ‘Do they do detox juices? Yeah, great. But no papaya, Rach, tell them, no papaya.’ – I hung up. ‘It’s being delivered in fifteen minutes.’ I pulled off the shirt. ‘Your time starts … now!’
We’d landed in Barcelona late last night, into Saturday-night frenzy – bumper-to-bumper traffic, horns blaring, music pulsing from competing venues. And it was warm. Palm trees lined the streets and it was a thrill to discover that our hotel was right next to the beach.
Quin had fallen asleep on the plane. After his middle-of-the-night homecoming, he’d managed about four hours’ sleep before getting up, unpacking, repacking and then driving five kilometres in Saturday-morning gridlock traffic to pick up twelve bottles of orange wine from Fincas de Azabache, an iconic South Dublin wine store where Audi-driving Rugby Dads regularly engaged in shouting matches with other Audi-driving Rugby Dads over parking spaces.
Said orange wine was for Finley’s birthday brunch at Vivi and Roly’s, which was surprisingly enjoyable, even though both Shiv and Golden were present. Shiv, being Finley’s mother, kind of had to be there. And Golden was Finley’s godmother.
But the beauty was that Shiv and Golden had history, so long running that it was barely concealed. （Among other things, they’d fought over Quin, a grant from the Irish Enterprise Board, and an old picnic rug Roly had been throwing out.） This meant that their attention was focused on each other, leaving me flying beneath the radar, having a surprisingly pleasant time.
Mostly with Vivi and Michelle, who engaged me in book talk, but whenever I sat up straight and declared, ‘Oh, I loved it,’ they frowned and used words like ‘specious’ and ‘mendacious’。
It happened so often that we ended up laughing uncontrollably. ‘You must think we’re impossible-to-please snobs,’ Michelle said.
‘And you must think I’m a halfwit!’
‘But at least you try,’ Vivi declared, inadvertently glancing at Shiv, then colouring at her faux pas.
My heart filled with warmth for Quin’s clever, cultured family. Okay, they weren’t over-burdened with empathy but they were great company and meant so well.
No matter what you did wrong, everything worked out in the end.
At the airport, Quin fell asleep in the fancy frequent-flyer’s lounge, then again on the plane. But Barcelona woke him up. ‘Hey.’ He was suddenly animated. ‘Let’s go out.’
Though it was gone midnight I was on for it. Parking all the emotional shifts and insights of the previous week and being here, present, with Quin, was important. I was keen to do anything he wanted. Except, ‘Not a place with a pool.’
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘Saturday night, in a party city? Me, shy and stone-cold sober, watching beautiful young things, out of their heads, misbehaving in the water? I have my limits, Quin.’
Briefly, he went tight about the mouth, then looked around. ‘Where’s the concierge? Oh, it’s a she.’ He engaged her in intense chat, quizzing her on nearby pool-free bars and making her laugh. ‘Okay.’ He was back with a booking. ‘Five minutes from here, on the oceanfront. Sounds good.’
After a quick change into more glitzy clothes – me in spindly-heeled sandals and one of my short dresses, him in a casual suit – off we went.
The bar was gorgeous. Three walls were open to the balmy night, revealing a sophisticated space with a hint of salt and sea.
Panels of aqua glass formed clusters of intimate seating – and what seating! In my first seven seconds I saw two Eames loungers, a Barcelona chair and a marshmallow sofa. A transparent bubble chair swung from the ceiling, shifting back and forth, looking slightly saucy.
‘Great music,’ Quin said.
‘And not too loud!’
We were led to a pair of low-slung lounge chairs, set in a circle of mellow light. Hiding behind my menu I took a cautious look around. To my relief, the clientele seemed ordinary enough people – perhaps slightly better-looking than average – instead of the coked-up, yacht-jumping Eurotrash I’d feared.
I squeezed Quin’s arm. ‘We’re not even too old!’
‘Speak for yourself, Grandma.’
Then I opened my menu … ‘Yikes. This buzzy, mellow vibe does not come cheap.’
‘Don’t, Rach.’