Lala had gotten over her Carl-funk, and flirted with the stall owners, taking photos for her social media profiles and pointing out the changes since I’d last been. There weren’t many. A few of the restaurants had changed hands and expanded, there were new bars and a couple of shops that were more upmarket than before, but the place was like it had been when I was last here and the decade before that.
“Where’s Còctels?” I hadn’t seen it yet. I was a demon for a good cocktail bar. When I found a place I liked, I’d spend an afternoon and evening in there, working my way through a good book or a design that needed inspiration.
“Here.” Lala took my hand and led me just off the main square, down one of the pedestrianised streets.
The sign outside was simple: wooden, made from what looked like driftwood in parts, the name was painted on and looked weathered. It was meant to look weathered. On the street outside, the furniture was haphazard; old chairs and beaten-up tables that looked like they’d been salvaged. Old-School laid-back tunes were already being piped from a sound system that probably cost the same as everything else put together, a couple of tables full with people drinking because this was the party island and it never stopped.
“Have you been here yet?” It was a stupid question to ask Lala.
“A couple of times. The head guy’s interesting.” She chose a table towards the bar, still outside but out of the way of people walking by.
“Why’s that?”
“Wait until you see him.”
I shrugged. I knew my sister. She lived for the dramatics and the build-up. “Does Carl have competition?”
“Carl always has competition. The problem is, he keeps on winning.” She shook her head. “Can we not talk about Carl for the rest of the day?”
“I’m happy not to talk about him for the rest of the year.” I actually liked him, I’d just had enough of Lala’s drama over the last near decade.
“Cool. Here’s the menu. Today’s bar bill’s my treat.”
I looked through the already tatty pages. The usual cocktails were there, classics like margaritas and negronis. There were a few newer additions, pornstar martinis and prosecco based long drinks, and a chalkboard that listed the specials of the day in half caps, half lowercase letters.
It was charmingly unsophisticated.
“Do they do food?” I hadn’t eaten since the fruit this morning, and I would be pretty interested in eating something right now, especially since day drinking was looking like a real thing.
Lala shook her head. “But you can order from the cafés nearby and have it delivered here. Makes sense.” She shrugged. “I should probably eat too. And you definitely should. You’ve gone skinny.”
“Same as you.” I defended myself.
“No. I still do shoots. The camera still adds ten pounds. You don’t. You can indulge. Not that you’ll gain much given the genes we were blessed with, but it definitely looks like you haven’t been taking care of yourself.”
“Say what you think, Lara.” I shook my head this time. “I’ve been busy, that’s all.”
“Then for the next few months the only thing you’re busy doing is relaxing, which means you can eat.” She put her phone on the table, opening an app. “The menus for food are on here, but we order through the bar. What do you fancy?”
I stretched out, a ray of sun sitting warmly across my back. “A coffee. A proper one. And a Spanish Omelette with chorizo.” I was even more hungry as I started to think about it. The last few months had been too busy, and while the company I’d been interning with hadn’t taken advantage purposely, they’d had more than their pound of flesh.
“I’ll go order. What cocktail would you like with your coffee?” Lala stood up, her make-up-less face still stunning. “And don’t think you’re saying no. I need a drink after last night.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “You pick. Nothing that’ll have me on my backside in less than ten minutes. I need to pace myself.”
“Fine.” She stomped off to the bar.
I already knew how the day was going to pan out. We’d drink slowly, interspersed with coffee and water, and tapas. Lots of tapas. Then late afternoon, Carl would magically turn up, somehow knowing where to find Lara, as would some of his friends. There’d be more bars and food at his restaurant, before either a party on a beach or a night in a club. He and Lala would disappear at some point, their argument forgotten.
It was a tale as old as at least half a decade.
“Have you ordered?”
The voice that came from somewhere near me was gruff. Deep. I turned round to see a man who matched his voice. Tall, broad shouldered, wearing a worn T-shirt that did nothing to hide the size of his biceps. A few strands of grey hair peppered a dark, neatly trimmed beard, and one of his arms was covered with tattoos.
“My sister’s at the bar now.” I gave him a smile, removing my sunglasses. He didn’t take his off, meaning there was no real way to make eye contact.
I wanted to see his eyes, to glean some idea of what person went with that voice and those arms.
