should book for our last night. The four of us.’
‘Mmm.’
Greg won’t meet her gaze and he pre-empts any further discussion of the subject by staring pointedly out of his side window, over-concentrating on the view down to the sea. He’d mooted the idea to Miki in the restaurant the other night, but he’s since changed his mind about sharing Jaume with Nathan, and he’s cross with Jenn for not running it by him before blurting it out. She stews on it, rankled by him – and yet she empathises too. He’s touchy about their special place. They have history withJaume and Jaume with them. She can see how the intrusion of a stranger might spoil that symbolism for Greg.
The road broadens out into wide open countryside and she gives up musing, abandoning herself to the sun-starched fields, strewn with golden cylinders of newly baled hay … The lid of cloud has lifted now and the sun is warming the dirty grey Mediterranean to a shimmering cerulean. Greg veers off into the oncoming lane as he cranes his neck round to ogle the villas wedged into the hillside; one in particular that has fascinated them for as long as they’ve been coming here. A car beeps at him, and Greg holds up his hand – guilty – and swerves back to his own side. Emma is more reserved in front of Nathan, but Jenn can still sense her wonderment at the storied casa , standing sentinel over the land. In years gone by she and Jenn would make believe about the exotic lives played out behind those elegant, pine-green shutters. For one moment all four pairs of eyes fix on the traditional limestone house spread over four or five floors, almost as big as a hotel. They once harboured dreams of buying a house on the hill. Nothing as spectacular as the casa grande – but something. Over time, there was a gradual narrowing ofaspiration and, for a while, that realisation embittered her. Not just the rude unveiling of the vanity of her dreams – their dreams – but also because Greg had allowed her to believe that anything was possible. She knows better, now. She knows there’ll be no fantasy home in Mallorca. She knows there’ll be no baby of their own. She knows all this yet there is still a part of her, not willing, yet – not ready to accept it.
They pass the roadside restaurant that, every year, they say they must visit. They reach the T-junction by the garage and turn left into the bumpy old Valldemossa road. Pines spring upwards and directly outwards from the road, splitting the surface and gnarling it with blisters. Greg swerves to avoid the tree roots, holding his glasses to his nose as he negotiates each bump and pothole. Jenn has a flashback to him swinging the wheel from left to right, all the way down this road once, sending Emma into fits of giggles. They were a family, then. She was Emma’s Mummy.
He slows right down as they approach the market on the left where crones in identical-shaped pinafores are already thronging the stalls for bargains. He zaps down the windows, for Nathan’s benefit, she assumes, and itis a sight to behold. The accent of the market is on Mallorcan heritage crafts and, as they crawl bumper-to-bumper through the little town, each stall lays out artisan wares. There’s a pottery stand selling hand-painted sangria jugs; there are wooden toys, porcelain crockery, baskets full of colourful sweets and lollipops; there are fine, made-to-measure shoes, glass-blown figurines, and row after row of local pastries and delicacies. One stall sells only the emblematic ensaïmada pastry; next to it a specialist sobrasada outlet. The medley of aromas wafts in through the window, mingling with the nutty scent of fig leaves that spices every breeze. In her wing mirror Jenn can see Nathan’s face, dancing. He nudges Emma.
‘Doesn’t half make you hungry.’
‘You’re always hungry.’
Jenn makes a thing of being lost to the world outside her window but every now and then she steals a glimpse. As the road curves upwards
‘Mmm.’
Greg won’t meet her gaze and he pre-empts any further discussion of the subject by staring pointedly out of his side window, over-concentrating on the view down to the sea. He’d mooted the idea to Miki in the restaurant the other night, but he’s since changed his mind about sharing Jaume with Nathan, and he’s cross with Jenn for not running it by him before blurting it out. She stews on it, rankled by him – and yet she empathises too. He’s touchy about their special place. They have history withJaume and Jaume with them. She can see how the intrusion of a stranger might spoil that symbolism for Greg.
The road broadens out into wide open countryside and she gives up musing, abandoning herself to the sun-starched fields, strewn with golden cylinders of newly baled hay … The lid of cloud has lifted now and the sun is warming the dirty grey Mediterranean to a shimmering cerulean. Greg veers off into the oncoming lane as he cranes his neck round to ogle the villas wedged into the hillside; one in particular that has fascinated them for as long as they’ve been coming here. A car beeps at him, and Greg holds up his hand – guilty – and swerves back to his own side. Emma is more reserved in front of Nathan, but Jenn can still sense her wonderment at the storied casa , standing sentinel over the land. In years gone by she and Jenn would make believe about the exotic lives played out behind those elegant, pine-green shutters. For one moment all four pairs of eyes fix on the traditional limestone house spread over four or five floors, almost as big as a hotel. They once harboured dreams of buying a house on the hill. Nothing as spectacular as the casa grande – but something. Over time, there was a gradual narrowing ofaspiration and, for a while, that realisation embittered her. Not just the rude unveiling of the vanity of her dreams – their dreams – but also because Greg had allowed her to believe that anything was possible. She knows better, now. She knows there’ll be no fantasy home in Mallorca. She knows there’ll be no baby of their own. She knows all this yet there is still a part of her, not willing, yet – not ready to accept it.
They pass the roadside restaurant that, every year, they say they must visit. They reach the T-junction by the garage and turn left into the bumpy old Valldemossa road. Pines spring upwards and directly outwards from the road, splitting the surface and gnarling it with blisters. Greg swerves to avoid the tree roots, holding his glasses to his nose as he negotiates each bump and pothole. Jenn has a flashback to him swinging the wheel from left to right, all the way down this road once, sending Emma into fits of giggles. They were a family, then. She was Emma’s Mummy.
He slows right down as they approach the market on the left where crones in identical-shaped pinafores are already thronging the stalls for bargains. He zaps down the windows, for Nathan’s benefit, she assumes, and itis a sight to behold. The accent of the market is on Mallorcan heritage crafts and, as they crawl bumper-to-bumper through the little town, each stall lays out artisan wares. There’s a pottery stand selling hand-painted sangria jugs; there are wooden toys, porcelain crockery, baskets full of colourful sweets and lollipops; there are fine, made-to-measure shoes, glass-blown figurines, and row after row of local pastries and delicacies. One stall sells only the emblematic ensaïmada pastry; next to it a specialist sobrasada outlet. The medley of aromas wafts in through the window, mingling with the nutty scent of fig leaves that spices every breeze. In her wing mirror Jenn can see Nathan’s face, dancing. He nudges Emma.
‘Doesn’t half make you hungry.’
‘You’re always hungry.’
Jenn makes a thing of being lost to the world outside her window but every now and then she steals a glimpse. As the road curves upwards
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