“Well, technically she’s flying to see us. She had some holiday time and wants to spend it doing something different. Apparently our nomad lifestyle has inspired her. She says she’s interested in being the third King of the Road.”
Robert laughed. “Everything about this is ridiculous.”
Try as I might to remain cool, I spent the rest of the week unable to think—or talk—about anything other than Hannah’s visit.
“I just can’t understand why she’d said yes.”
“Uh, she likes you, you fucking idiot,” said Rob.
That couldn’t be it. Until just a few weeks ago she’d thought I was a drunken dick. Surely discovering that I could occasionally write a funny email or a blog post couldn’t have changed that. I started to worry that I’d misinterpreted her trip. Maybe she wasn’t interested at all; maybe she really did just want to sit in the sun. Oh God, what should I do about beds? Should I give her the spare bed—in which case would she think I wasn’t interested? Or should I assume she’d want to share with me, which could lead to all kinds of embarrassment if I was wrong?
“Jesus Christ,” said Robert, “this is typical you. You treat every other girl like total crap, which of course makes them fall madly in love with you. And then Michelle and I have to pick up the pieces and explain that you’re not a total bastard, just “
emotionally unavailable
,” which we all know is a euphemism for “a total cunt.” But then the moment you meet a girl you actually like, you totally lose your shit and turn into a quivering virgin.”
“It’s just that Hannah’s…I dunno … different,” I said.
“Virgin,” said Rob. “Quivering emo virgin.”
“That’s actually going to be the title of my second album,” I said.
By the time I drove to the airport to pick Hannah up, I’d decided that Robert was right. Faint heart never won fair Canadian. If I’d got the wrong end of the stick then I’d just have to live with the embarrassment—there was always the spare room for one of us to sleep in. To make things more interesting, Robert had invited a girl over as well. Her name was Sally—a South African who had until recently dated Michael.
“Does Michael know she’s coming out?” I asked Rob.
“Not entirely,” said Robert, “best not to write about her.”
34
We’d convinced the girls to take the same flight so we’d only have to drive to the airport once. This seemed like a brilliant idea until—on the way to the airport—we realized that there was a chance that they’d have met on the plane and started comparing notes.
I’d told Hannah some of the indiscreet things Robert had said about his date, and I was pretty sure he’d told Sally about my gibbering excitement over Hannah. These were not details that needed to be exchanged.
Fortunately, even though they came through arrivals at almost exactly the same time, it seemed that neither had realized who the other was. Robert pulled Sally into a long hug before kissing her firmly on the mouth.
“Hello, darling,” he said.
I hesitated for a second before hugging Hannah and awkwardly kissing her cheek. I looked into her eyes for clues. Had she been expecting a kiss? No, of course not, that would be weird. I took her bag and we headed back to the car.
We’d been in the villa long enough now to have mastered the art of barbecuing and the girls were, we thought, suitably impressed by our skills at making fire and grilling meat. After dinner Robert suggested that we get into the hot tub, and he and Sally headed off to their room to “get changed.”
This was the moment of truth; the moment where, surely, I was going to make a total fucking fool of myself, and probably get stabbed in the eye with a barbecue fork. Hell, this was the girl who had pushed me across a room for accusing her of being American. I turned to Hannah. She spoke first.
“So,” she said.
“So,” I replied.
And then I kissed her.
The barbecue fork remained on the table.
“About fucking time,” she said. “Which one’s our room?”
908
The day after Hannah flew back to London I walked—floated, really, on a cushion of happiness—into the kitchen to find Robert scribbling on a notepad.
“Working hard?” I asked.
“Fourteen thousand miles.”
“What?”
“Fourteen thousand miles. That’s the total distance—including return trips—that women will have flown in order to sleep with you in Spain, once Eris gets here.”
“First of all, Robert, it’s horrible that you worked that out,” I said.
“I mean, I take no small amount of pleasure in the number—but it’s horrible that you’ve actually worked it out.”
“Oh, it’s worse than that. I was actually going to suggest a game—‘the Google Maps Challenge’—to see if I could beat your total by the end of the trip.”
“Well, I’m glad you thought better of it.”
“Actually, I just realized that to win I’d need to find five girls willing to fly here, just to cancel out Eris.”
“Well, in that case, I accept your surrender. Good game, Rob.”
I patted him on the back, and headed to the fridge for a celebratory beer. Eris’s flight arrived at Malaga airport at five o’clock, and we decided to make the most of the sun by heading down to the beach. Eris had been intrigued by the concept of Eurotrash, and we could think of no better place to explain it than the playground of the rich and most wanted: Puerto Banus.
The Ocean Club in Puerto Banus describes itself as “the most
exclusive and impressive setting on the Costa del Sol,” a sort of outdoor daytime nightclub, with topless women sunbathing by a gigantic pool, which backs right onto the beach. Access to the bar is limited to models, playboys and their playthings—which meant there was no way Rob, Eris and I were going to get in. Unless, that is, we pulled the lunch trick.
“Hello, there are four of us for lunch.”
The door person—a tanned male model in a black suit and a white t-shirt—looked us up and down. For a start, there were only three of us. And, also, we certainly didn’t look like people who were going to spend fifty euros on a plate of
Tempur de Gambas Agrudulce
. Good eye, door person. But who can tell these days? We might be dot-com millionaires; they always dress like scum.
“Do you have reservations?”
“Oh, no,” said Rob, affecting his best playboy-on-shore-leave tone, “we weren’t expecting to moor for another week. Will it be a problem to walk in?”
“No, no, for lunch that will be fine,” said the door person.
“Thank you. We’re expecting one more person before we sit down. If we wait in the bar, can you let us know when they arrive?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Of course, our nonexistent friend would never show, leaving us to drink with supermodels for the rest of the day. We sat at the bar and Robert called over a bartender.
“Three piña coladas, please.” Robert’s playboy impression was taking a turn for the white trash, but in for a euro, in for …
“Thirty-six euros, please. Would you like to open a tab?”
Jesus Christ. I gave the bartender my card and he began mixing the piña coladas, pouring them into small tumblers.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Robert, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“This is how we serve piña coladas,” said the bartender.
“No, no, no,” said Robert, “piña coladas are served in those big piña colada glasses.” Glasses which just so happen to be twice the size of the tumblers.
The bartender sighed. “We don’t have any piña colada glasses, sir.”
“Well, that’s not good enough,” said Robert, “but I suppose we can make do with brandy snifters. They’re close enough. Honestly—who serves piña coladas in a tumbler?”
“Our …
clientele
… prefer it that way, sir.”
He said the word
clientele
in such a way as to make clear that we did not fall within the narrow borders of his definition.
Rob just shrugged; the customer is always right. Grudgingly, the bartender decanted two of the tumblers into a single brandy snifter and slid it over to Robert before skulking off to make two more very large piña coladas for Eris and me.
Robert called after him. “And a little paper umbrella, please.”
The three of us had only taken the smallest sip from our drinks—with little paper umbrellas—when a stunning blonde with an all-over tan and no bikini top came and stood next to where we were sitting.
“What are those?” she asked, in a heavy German accent.
“Piña coladas,” said Rob.
“
Nocheinen
,
bitte
,” she said to the bartender, pointing at our glasses. Robert grinned his victory at the bartender.
“With a little umbrella,” said Rob.
“
Ja
,
miteinen Regenschirm
,” confirmed the German woman.
Twenty minutes later we looked around the bar. “This is freaking hilarious,” said Eris.
And she was right: at least a dozen of the Ocean Club’s clientele were strolling around sipping piña coladas in brandy snifters, each replete with brightly colored umbrella.
Our work there was done.
909
“Hey, Paul, don’t drink this.”
Eris was unpacking her suitcase in our bedroom. I’d taken every possible precaution to remove any trace of Hannah from the room, but still, every time Eris opened a closet, a small wave of panic washed over me in case I’d missed a telltale hair clip or suchlike.
In Eris’s hand was a silver hipflask with an inscription beautifully engraved across the whole of one side. From across the room I couldn’t make out what it said, but clearly the contents were important.
“OK, I won’t. Why, what is it?”
“It’s my mom.”
910
Eris’s mother had passed away very suddenly a year or so earlier. This is something I was aware of, but hadn’t really pried too much into. In fact, I knew that Eris had lost both of her parents, both very suddenly, and both very recently. I was waiting for her to find the right time to share the details with me, if she wanted to.
What I certainly hadn’t known was that Eris had her mother’s ashes placed into a specially engraved flask, which she had decided to bring with her to Spain. Her plan—and it was a heartbreakingly lovely plan—was to leave some of the ashes in each of the places she visited around the world; places her mother never got a chance to visit. None of this I’d known.
But all of it I had to figure out in the split second after Eris spoke those words. “It’s my mom.”
“Oh,” I said, “OK.”
Hooboy. Thank God she’d warned me. That could have been awkward.
911
The last time I tried to keep the existence of one girl from another girl it had ended in disaster when I’d accidentally, and drunkenly, invited both of them to the same London pub at the same time. The two girls, both Americans, incidentally, had spent the rest of the evening comparing notes on what a complete and total shit I was, resulting in their becoming best friends forever. Or “BFFs” as they—both being American—would have it said.
Another result of that night was that they’d subsequently decided to do everything they could to get their revenge on me; starting by setting up a website explaining why no girl in her right mind should ever date me. Like I said, I love American girls and their fiery ways.
Keen to avoid a repeat of history, I decided that, when it came to the Eris–Hannah situation, honesty was the best policy.
“Eris,” I said—which was about as much of the conversation as I’d planned before I started to speak—“remember that girl Hannah I told you about at South by Southwest?”
“Of course,” said Eris, “the Canadian you wouldn’t shut up about.”
“Oh, yes, her. Well, I should probably tell you that she came out to the villa last week. I mean, it’s not …”
“I know.”
Eris just carried on unpacking; she didn’t even pause.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know. I’ve been reading your blog.”
“But I didn’t mention her on the blog.”
“Exactly, you didn’t post anything the whole weekend. Total rookie mistake. It was obvious you were getting laid and didn’t want anyone to know.”
“So you’re not annoyed?”
“I flew to Spain from San Francisco and am about to climb into
your bed. Does any of that say “annoyed girl behavior” to you? If I were annoyed I could have set up a hate blog from home and saved the airplane ticket.”
Touché. It was too much to hope that Hannah would be as understanding. As Eris finished unpacking, I walked out to the patio and dialed Hannah’s number. She answered on the second ring. Dammit; I was half hoping it would go to voicemail.
“Hey,” I said.
“Paul! Hey! Wait—shouldn’t you be boning that Eris chick? Doesn’t she arrive today?”
Okey-dokey
.
“How did you …”
“You told me last week when you drunk-dialed me from Alejo’s.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I don’t entirely remember the conversation. So you don’t think I’m a shit?”
“Of course I do. I think you’re a total fucking dick,” replied Hannah. I started to explain: “I know, it’s just that … wait … hang on, the last time I was drunk in Alejo’s was before you came out. Why didn’t you say anything while you were here?”
“Don’t be an idiot. You’re not a dick for having another girl fly out—that’s actually kinda hilarious. You’re a dick because she’s probably lying in your bed waiting for you while you’re on the phone to me. How do you think that makes her feel, you fucking dick?”
I’m really not very good at this.
912
Another thing I’m not very good at is having sex with someone, knowing that their dead mother is in my bedside cabinet.
Not that having sex with someone’s live mother in my bedside cabinet would be any easier. Mothers, generally speaking, should not be in bedside cabinets while you are having sex with their daughters. Is all.