‘Yeah. We tend to head out mid-July after a couple of weeks in Norway at our summer house in Hvasser. Then we stay until the kids go back to school, but the last couple of years we’ve cut it short as it’s just been unbearably hot in August.’
Bianka nods, but her attention is diverted by the little horseshoe bay we’re just arriving at – Cala Azura. Its waters are sheltered by craggy headlands on both sides, and tonight the narrow bay shimmers in shades of bronze and gold with the very last rays of the sun. At the far end is a little boathouse, which still houses my mother’s wooden rowing boat, as well as our stand-up paddleboard and various beach stuff. As I knew she would, Bianka gushes about our little cove, saying it’s the loveliest beach she has ever seen and asking lots of questions like, Can you snorkel here? Can I try the stand-up paddleboard? I answer her questions, but my mind is elsewhere, as it always is when I come down here. It’s as though this little bay casts a spell on me and I’m compelled to just walk into the water and let it close over my head.
We walk to the north, where the bay is closed off by the tall cliffsides that separate it from the much more frequented Cala Xarraca. Hardly anyone comes here, mostly because only my property has direct access to it, a fact which is contested by my neighbours, the loaded Parisian Dubois-Joseph family, even though they have unrestricted access across my property on the path that leads to the coves. They’ve been wanting to buy a big chunk of my land so the coastal path will run across their property rather than mine, and claim it was originally theirs anyway.
For years, they have tried increasingly persistently to convince me to sell and last year they presented me with an offer so high I thought I’d imagined an extra zero in the formal lawyer’s letter. Money is clearly no object for these people, but I didn’t even tell Andreas how much they were prepared to pay – four million euros just for the land – because I suspected he’d start to put pressure on me to accept. I felt bad keeping it from my husband, but Can Xara is mine, at the end of the day, and Andreas doesn’t involve himself in the running of the property beyond showing up a couple of times a year in his Vilebrequins. So I explained to the Dubois-Josephs that no part of my mother’s estate is for sale, not now and not ever.
I feel her here: Ximena, my mother. Maybe it’s because she was born on the island, or because she died here, but it wasn’t until I came to Ibiza that I felt something of her remained in this world, infused into its air bearing the scent of wild thyme and frangipani, or held in the gentle waves lapping at the shore, or in the fading, ethereal evening light. She no longer feels dead to me.
A sound cuts through my thoughts. Bianka says something, and by the bemused look on her face I gather she’s repeating it for the second or perhaps third time.
‘What?’ I say, turning to her and focusing on giving her my full attention. Bianka is pointing to the low, ancient, whitewashed building halfway up the steep hill, between Cala Azura and my sleek modern construction, and only partly visible from the beach. You’d have to know it was there to access it on an even narrower path than the one we came down. The finca sits in the midst of a clutch of lemon trees, beneath the terraced olive trees that grow in neat rows on the hills. Now, in the low violet evening light, the house is only just discernible from the rocks. You’d be forgiven for thinking it was a little shepherd’s hut or a storage building or even just a pile of rocks, but up close, it’s actually quite large; a three-bedroom farmhouse with unparalleled ocean views.
‘What’s that little house up there?’
‘It’s a finca.’
‘A finca?’
‘An old, traditional farmhouse. It’s where my mother lived.’ I can feel Bianka’s eyes dart from the finca to me and back again but keep my gaze focused on the hillsides, awash in stunning light in shades of purple and red. The spotlights have gone on at the main house on the top of the hill, making it look like a UFO perched there to gain an overview of these enchanted headlands.
‘We’d better head back up,’ I say. ‘We should start getting ready for dinner, really.’
‘Can we go see that house? The finca?’ The idea of diverting from the main path and heading toward Ximena’s farmhouse instantly fills me with a vicious dread. In all the years since I started spending time here and built the new Can Xara, I’ve only been to the finca a couple of times, and only because it’s been absolutely necessary, like when it flooded in a winter storm and its foundations needed reinforcing.
An image appears uninvited in my mind, of my hand reaching out and touching the well-worn, bronze doorknob and pushing the heavy, metal-studded oak door open, revealing the ancient sanctuary my mother loved.
‘Um, no, sorry. I… I actually never go there.’
‘How come? It looks utterly charming,’ says Bianka, narrowing her eyes to get a better view of the house as we start on the steep stone steps rising from Cala Azura back up to the path.
‘It’s a ruin, basically. I forget it’s even there most of the time; I never think about it.’ This is, of course, a lie. A big one. But this way, I get to pretend.
I feel a sudden, intense wave of exhaustion. I don’t want to think about the finca or explain anything about it to Bianka. I want to lie down on my bed in my sleek white modern box of a house and let tears flow from my eyes into my pillow, if only for a moment. Bianka must sense that I’ve gone quiet and quickly drops it, mumbling something about ‘perhaps another time’. I’m reminded of Bianka’s own loss – she told me that night in Leyton that she, too, had lost her mother very young but wouldn’t go into the details, and I wonder if she’ll tell me about what happened sometime, perhaps on this trip.
I stomp up the path fast, making Bianka half-run next to me. I need to treat this as a workout if I’m going to indulge in both food and alcohol this evening. When my heart races, my mind clears. I keep my eyes firmly on the dusty path, now lit by an almost-full moon appearing above Punta de Sa Creu, sending ripples of light onto the darkened sea. If I looked down to the right in this moment, I’d just be able to make out a small patch of the finca’s terracotta roof tiles and the waxy, dense tops of the citrus trees surrounding it. But I don’t. I work on getting my pulse racing so it overrides any other feeling, even the burning pain I feel in the hollow of my stomach when I think about my mother and her beloved finca.
Sometimes, if I’m especially drunk or especially sad and in the mood for self-torture, I let myself pretend that she’s down there, a couple of hundred yards down the hillside, painting. I can see her in my mind, so clearly then; her skin brown and glowing, her long hair coiled around itself like rope and secured on top of her head, streaks of silver picking up the light. I pretend that I could just go to her if I wanted to.
*
I come downstairs just as the intercom rings. I’m wearing a short, ruffled red dress and a full face of makeup – I felt the need for a bit of armour after my walk down to the beach with Bianka. I’d felt strangely tender when we arrived back at the house and sat a long time at my desk in the bedroom, just crying my eyes out. Can Xara seems to have that effect on me; it’s as though all my control peels away and the real uncensored me forces her way to the surface.
After, I made myself get in the shower, where I let the water rush down my face for a long time. Now, I feel much better. The girls are all sitting in the living room chatting animatedly, and they cheer when they see me in my dress and high heels. Bianka leaps up and presses a glass of champagne into my hand as I open the gates.
‘Who is it?’ asks Anette. She, too, is all dressed up in a gold toga silk dress.
‘Dinner,’ I say, and wink. I open the door and two extremely attractive young men emerge from a white soft-top bearing the neon pink ‘Carlo Catering’ logo. These guys know how to appeal to the fussy lady eaters of the island, that’s for sure.
‘Charlotte,’ Carlo says, ‘so good to see you back in Ibiza.’ He takes turns kissing my cheeks enthusiastically. I introduce them to the girls and we all file out onto the terraces and sit back while gorgeous Carlo and his brother Ricky fire up the barbecue and prepare the thick slabs of steak I’ve ordered. I crank up the music and smoke the thin menthol cigarette that Anette hands me, enjoying the feeling of relaxation spreading through my system from the champagne and nicotine.
The food is exquisite: chargrilled steak and buttered pointy cabbage, just the way I like it. Carlo and Ricky discreetly wrap up and leave us to it and we sit outside in the warm evening for several hours after we’ve finished eating, sipping wine and laughing. Bianka seems to slot right in with my friends, and I feel relieved the slight tension of this morning seems to have dissipated. Our conversations flit from work to husbands to kids to Ibiza. I think about Andreas, Madeleine and Oscar, how they’ll likely be fast asleep, and find that I can’t quite conjure them up in my mind; they feel slippery and vague, like people from a dream. I feel so acutely present in the moment with Bianka, Anette and Linda, it’s as though my real life has ceased to exist.
Linda stands up and blows kisses to the three of us still sitting.
‘Off to get my beauty sleep,’ she says as she heads back into the house.
‘One more glass of wine, girls?’ I ask the others, lifting the open bottle of rosé from the ice bucket and refilling our glasses without waiting for a response.
‘What a day,’ says Bianka softly. ‘I am so grateful to be here. And it’s so lovely to properly meet and get to know you, too, Anette.’ Anette and Bianka smile at each other, then clink their glasses together in a toast.
‘Real life feels so far away,’ I say, staring out at the moon-drenched sea and the star-studded night sky, a shiver chasing the length of my spine, though the air is still warm and humid.
‘Thank God,’ says Anette, and we all laugh.
‘Here’s to a wild time away from husbands, children, and piles of laundry,’ says Bianka, and we touch our glasses together enthusiastically again.
‘What happens in Ibiza stays in Ibiza,’ I say, and take a sip from my wine glass. As I do, my eyes meet Bianka’s across the table and her gaze is intense and charged. I swallow and glance at Anette, who has clearly noticed the fleeting moment between Bianka and me.
‘Indeed,’ she says. She stands up, covering her mouth and yawning exaggeratedly. ‘Bedtime for me, ladies,’ she says. ‘Be good,’ she adds, winking at me as she walks back toward the house. Bianka and I fall silent, perhaps sobered by the realization that we’re alone again.
‘It’s so dark,’ Bianka says. I feel confused by the atmosphere between us; the way she looked at me seemed challenging, like she was daring me to do something but I don’t know what it is. Or like she can see right through me. I try to make sense of how I actually feel about the current that seems to run between us, but my own feelings are murky and chaotic. I do know that I want to be here with her, mellow and a little woozy in the moonlit night, feeling her gaze on me, a smile playing on her lips, like I am a strange and interesting creature that has never been seen before. An image inserts itself into my mind – I’m in bed, naked, and Bianka is sitting beside me, gazing down at me with that exact same look in her eyes. I feel myself blushing deeply and feel convinced she can read my thoughts. I take another sip of the wine and try to think of something to say, something far removed from the very inappropriate mental picture I just entertained.
‘So, tell me more about what you did for work,’ I say. ‘I mean, I know you worked in marketing but not much more. I feel like we’ve only ever really talked about mine.’
‘That’s because yours is super interesting and impressive, and mine was really, really not.’
‘Oh…’ I begin, and the truth is, I can’t really imagine going to work every day in a job that doesn’t fill you with passion and enthusiasm. Or not working at all, what the hell would you do with all that time? I almost went crazy when we moved to London and I had nothing to do every day, hence the blog, and the rest is history. I always work on holiday, a few hours each morning at the crack of dawn, and so does Andreas. I can’t imagine just sitting around on the beach, and eating, or whatever it is people do.
