But there was more to the island than the party capitals. Exclusive clubs, invite-only beach parties, laid back restaurants and parties in villas that were more like Balearic palaces were part of the life that the average holidaymaker didn’t find. As teenagers, we’d found our feet in them, drank champagne with super-models and actors, danced with musicians and woke up on beaches with royalty.
If Monaco was where you went to be seen, Ibiza was where you could hide in the open.
A night out in Sant Antoni was permissible, because even if you were recognised, everyone was too fucked off their tits to care.
“How long are you staying here for?” I had no idea any more about my sister’s plans because they changed so quickly. Sometimes I found out what she was doing in the press. A photograph of her elegantly leaving an expensive restaurant, a snap of her on the arm of some actor she was accompanying. She’d learned what not to do from Livi, and learned what to do from her as well.
I kept to my buildings.
“I have a new collection to design, so other than a few trips to Paris I’ll probably stay all summer.” She stretched, her cropped T-shirt showing off a stomach that was enviably flat.
“No photoshoots?” My sister chose them selectively.
“Two so far, but the photographers are coming here. June and August. One asked if you’d be interested in joining with me.”
It wasn’t my thing anymore. When we’d been younger, seventeen, eighteen, Livi had encouraged us to do editorial shoots for high end designers. She and Lara had done a couple together, some shots from that were on the walls in Villa Safir, beautiful reminders of what we were.
I wouldn’t do another shoot. It wasn’t me now. It probably hadn’t been me then either, but I hadn’t known who I was then.
I didn’t tell Lara as much. I’d only end up dodging her bribery and emotional blackmail for the next few weeks. “I’ll think about it. How’s Lawrie, by the way?”
Lara laughed. “I barely see him. He’s opened up a club in Sant Antoni – Debased – only I don’t think we’re meant to know about it.”
“Why?” Lawrie was a self-made millionaire, investing in businesses and buying ones that were failing. That was what we knew of.
“It’s low-end. I think the goal’s for it to last the season.”
“Have you been?”
“Not my scene. I’ll make sure it isn’t Daisy’s either.” Lara turned around, the sound of a too-noisy car engine behind us.
I shifted closer to the side of the road to allow whichever petrolhead was terrorising the island to pass us. Lara gave the driver the V’s as they passed, shouting some obscenity that they’d never hear over the sound of their car.
“Arseholes.” She’d never sounded so posh.
I shook my head and carried on driving, only half-listening to her tirade about boy racers and how they should be hung up and have their innards removed. Lara liked to get on her stage about the environment from time to time. She’d done several shoots to promote understanding of climate change, including one where she was pretty much naked.
Our dad had gone sick at that, to use his description.
I turned left, the narrow road dropping down towards the coast. The sea was visible in the distance, glinting like a sapphire, the jewel the villa was named after. Large fincas sat back from the road, landscaped gardens surrounding them. Es Cubells was where the rich rented summer homes, or the very wealthy owned one. The town was small, just two or three restaurants and a couple of bars, the beach remote and wild, difficult to access, which meant day trippers and youths seeking to sleep off the night before never discovered it.
As busy as the island could be, there were parts that stayed wild and desolate. This was the true Ibiza for me, the place I grew up, where peace combined with a sense of freedom, of knowing that anything was possible, no matter who you were.
I’d totally tuned out from what Lara was saying by the time I fobbed us through the electric gates down the drive to Villa Safir.
Nothing had changed. The bright white of the walls and the colour of the flowers were the same every time, plump green lawn laid either side of the drive, bordered with more plants and flowers.
The original part of the villa was an Ibizan finca, that was three hundred years old, serving as the area’s oil mill. In the sixties, a Persian prince had owned it, developing it to a ten bedroomed property with two pools. When Livi and Gav bought it twenty-six years ago, they’d renovated it, adding on additional rooms, and five years ago, they’d added a spa.
Neither had ever discussed buying the other out. The property was still shared, with Livi living there most of the time and Gav using it as he wanted. They spoke, never argued and always found a compromise.
It was strange.
We’d never understood why they’d split up.
I parked the car, the heat wrapping itself around me like a silk scarf. Ibiza in May was a slice of heaven and for the first time, I felt the weight I’d been carrying on my shoulders lift.
Safir was usually housing a couple of guests. It was rare for only family to be there. Artists wanting to use the studio Livi had built years ago, where the light was perfect for painting, would sometimes just turn up; famous friends and titled relations sought Safir for a retreat, while rock stars and models would be there just to hang out, take in the island’s vibe.
