‘It looks full,’ observes my sister, ‘what a shame.’
We are startled by an almighty shriek from a crazed lady in an apron at the far end of the restaurant. I watch as the lady barges through the tables whooping and cheering, to scoop up Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen into an embarrassing hug, kissing her cheeks many times. You’d think she’d not seen her since she was a baby.
‘Your mother,’ I say knowingly to Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen, who glances across at us with a withered look. Even the diners around us stop eating to see what all the fuss is about. Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen is clearly uncomfortable and rapidly tells her mum in Spanish to calm down as she is making an embarrassing scene. Her mother laughs this off and continues to hold her face in both her hands, yelling ‘Look who is here!’ over the diners to, presumably, her husband and other family members.
Out from the kitchen troop a line of chefs and kitchen staff ready to make a huge and unnecessary to-do over Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen.How stifling.I catch her eye and for the first time, we exchange a look of understanding. She eventually rolls her eyes, emits a little hiss and allows herself to be fussed over. I suffer a pang of nostalgia and regret. It has been too long since I last enjoyed interacting with my parents.
Breaking me from my thoughts, I hear my name being mentioned. ‘This is Miss Weston.’ Suddenly, I am being launched at by this overly passionate family. People are kissing my cheeks and shaking my hand and speaking in pigeon-English to tell me how happy they are that at last their Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen has found a job that she is good at.
For a moment I almost choke. Good at?Good at?How on earth have they reached that conclusion? Then the penny drops. I flick her a look and she goes bright red. I listen as her parents praise me for training up their daughter to be a successful businesswoman.
‘We always knew she would run her own business one day. She’s just like her Mama,’ Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen’s father says, looking proudly from his daughter to his wife.
I raise an eyebrow. For a split second, I am sorely tempted to burst this little bubble, this web of lies. I see Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen take in a sharp breath.
Like me, Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen has not been entirely honest with the people who should matter the most.
I turn to her family, and in Spanish, tell them that their daughter is indeed a valuable member of the partnership and announce that she will very soon be overhauling our accounts system, as well as a new online booking system which means we can expand OUR business. This elicits lots of ‘oohs’ and ‘aaaahs’. I receive a grateful look of thanks from Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen, which I return with a firm look of expectation.
Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen nods in understanding. Well, I’m just going to assume that is what it is, as she can be very compliant at times, and I simply have no idea if she means it.
We are whisked through the restaurant to the private outside dining area. It is a small, square courtyard filled with tables covered in checked cloths, lined with trees covered in twinkling fairy lights and dominated by a fountain in the centre. I breathe in a nostril of the delicious Italian cuisine filling the air. The scene before us is breath-takingly pretty.
‘Wow,’ my sister and I say together. She gives me a little embarrassed look. When we were kids, we always said things in unison despite the age gap. She’d follow me around everywhere. A sign of our closeness. All the men in white overalls and chefs’ hats disappear, leaving Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen’s mother to usher us to a glorious table by the fountain.
‘On the house!’ beams Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen’s mother at me, grinning away and I find this bit extremely, extremely embarrassing, she takes my hands in hers and thanks me profusely for putting up with her daughter. I give Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen a confused look. Surely, I misheard.
Her mother leans in close and whispers to me in Spanish, that if possible, could I get her daughter to stop ringing her every five minutes, as she has a busy restaurant to run. She winks at me and bustles off, wiping her hands on her apron as she trots into the kitchen and disappears out of sight.
‘What did she say?’ Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen demands.
‘Um… well, she said that she’s very proud of you, and she understands that her speaking with you during working hours is distracting you from running a successful business. So, she will speak to you when you get home after work. Face to face. Instead of every ten minutes during the day.’
I wait to see how Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen will react to this potentially devastating news.
I’m relieved to see her face light up.
Within seconds, glasses of red wine are shoved into our hands along with menus. Plates of dough balls, olives, assorted dips and breadsticks are plonked down for us. My eyes are on stalks. It looks amazing.
Now, I know I’ve told these two that I’m not at all hungry and that I detest garlic and that I am staunchly vegan now, so I’m not remotely surprised to see my sister and Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen trade glances when I order a cheesy garlic bread starter and spicy wedges, and I am also not surprised to see my sister stifle a giggle when catching sight of me wolfing down an enormous pepperoni pizza, half the size of the table itself, even though I’ve declared meat-eaters to be contributing to the end of the world’s eco-system.
And when three hot chocolate fudge cakes with homemade vanilla ice-cream are plonked down afterwards, I ignore their wide-eyed stare and dive straight in. I can barely move as I listen to Ava, who appears to be on a break from taking pictures of the food instead of eating it, asking ‘MJ’ all about her life here in Spain.
Turns out I barely know this girl. Shame on me. As another bottle of red wine is opened and poured for us, I notice Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen looking shyly at the waiter. My sister notices this tiny giveaway too. The waiter, however, does not notice and barely looks in her direction. Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen’s face deflates for a split second before she recovers herself.
‘Who’s the hot waiter guy?’ Ava asks instantly. We watch as Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen feigns ignorance, shrugging her shoulders as she looks away from him.
‘Here, have a confidence drink,’ says Ava, topping up her glass, ‘and watch this.’
Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen and I are treated to a masterclass in flirting as Ava calls the waiter over, orders some water and deftly pumps him for information. In less than two minutes, we know his name - Alejandro, how often he works out – too often, what his views on feminism are – he likes it - his Instagram handle and, most importantly, we learn that he is single and available next weekend.
‘This is my sister Nelly-Belly, and you must know MJ already? She’s like the owner of this restaurant. It’s named after her.’
Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen’s cheeks flame instantly as the handsome waiter says of course he knows her. He gives her a lingering smile. She immediately protests that she is definitely not the owner of the restaurant and starts to release that strange hissing sound again, her lips curled into an awkward smile. It’s certainly a unique laugh, I’ll give her that.
Alejandro rushes off to get our water.
‘Well done,’ I say to her. ‘He’s very cute and totally into you.’
