Mimi

She’d been messing around with her hair all morning, selfishly occupying the bathroom. No matter what she tried, nothing looked right. In the end she opted for curly. It made her look more feminine, something a mature man would probably most appreciate. She used some heated rollers that she found at the back of the bathroom cabinet that probably had belonged to Mrs. Cohen. She checked the result in the mirror. It still looked funny, with the sides so short. Perhaps it was time for a change. Her kinky hair had been gawped at enough to last her a while.

On her way back from the bathroom she ran into Sebastian. He looked her over with a puzzled expression.

‘You look different,’ he said. ‘Sort of feminine.’

‘Yuck, no way,’ she said. ‘I’m a bad-ass.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ruffling the curls. ‘Go sort yourself out. Someone might take you for a nice girl.’

‘Aren’t you late for work?’

He kissed her on the cheek and headed for the door, his briefcase under his arm. Mimi went back to her room to tackle the problem of what to wear. Thankfully she had rinsed out the dress she’d worn last night; it was the best she had. Her makeup took ages. She debated for some time whether to squeeze a spot or not – didn’t in the end – and she nicked her leg shaving.

It was time to catch the taxi so she left the apartment and headed down the stairs, then flinched in surprise when Sebastian stepped out of the shadows in the ground-floor hallway. He must have been waiting there since leaving the apartment, or returned, acting on a hunch.

He looked her up and down, noting the dress, shoes and makeup.

‘Where are you going?’ he said.

‘Why are you lurking here?’

‘What are you up to, Mimi? Why are you dressed up?’

‘Listen, I can’t stop,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a taxi waiting. You know how it is, they just move on if you’re not there to jump straight in.’

He took her by the arm to restrain her. ‘Where is this taxi taking you?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. I’m in a hurry. Don’t hassle me.’

‘I’m not letting you go. I ran into Montegriffo on my way out. He looked suspiciously smug. When I asked him, he said he was going to his retreat in Both Worlds.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’ She shrugged with feigned irritation.

‘Because that’s where you’re going too, isn’t it?’

She whipped her arm out of his grasp. ‘What if I am? I’m eighteen years old, Sebastian. Carlo has invited me for lunch, and I’m going.’

He tried to block her way and they grappled for a moment. She couldn’t believe they’d come to this. He held her firmly by the arms and stared her in the face. ‘You live under my roof, you eat and shower and occupy the biggest bedroom. You’ll bloody-well abide by my rules. You’re not going to Both Worlds to have sexual congress with that Bible-thumping pervert.’

‘Who’s the pervert?’ she hissed. ‘You have no business even speculating about what I might do or not do. If you want me to, I’ll move out.’

He dropped her arms. ‘No, Mimi, you can’t do that.’

‘Oh, Sebastian. Come on…let’s not fight.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You gave me a very special birthday and I appreciate it massively, and I love you to bits, but you’ve got to stop controlling my life and begin to deal with your own stuff. You’ve got some huge problem going on, that’s becoming obvious. I sure as hell hope you’re taking your pills. We’ve been here all summer and I bet you’ve not signed up with any doctor or attended any clinic. If you don’t want to tell Eva, at least go back to London and see Dr. Matthews. Just take care of it, or you’re in danger of fucking up your relationship and your work and everything.’ He stared at her. ‘You hear me, bro?’

When he didn’t answer, she put a hand on his cheek and looked him in the eye. ‘Come on, now. Why don’t you come with me? Both Worlds is on the way to your site. You can drop me off.’

‘And deliver you to that creep myself. Never!’

‘Suit yourself.’

She ran out of the hall, past an astonished-looking Moroccan woman who’d been sweeping the ramp and had probably heard the whole interaction.

Traffic in town was murder. Too many planes were landing, so cars and pedestrians were stopped from crossing the runway. The backup caused a tension-filled congestion in town. The temperatures were soaring. Finally, her taxi hit Devil’s Tower Road, leading out of the town centre along the east side.

The road was narrow between the sea and the slope of the old water catchment, so the driver had to drop her off in a layby. She walked self-consciously towards her destination. The row of tiny white chalets looked careworn up close, yet their setting was spectacular. She finally found the right entrance and chose amongst the doorbells. The door buzzed open and Carlo instructed her through the intercom which way to go.

The door was ajar and she walked in without knocking. In a small living room, on a leather sofa, Carlo sat waiting for her. She noted that his retreat-wear was different from his town look: he was actually wearing shorts and a vest from which thin, long legs and arms protruded. He jumped up and came to her, kissing her on both cheeks.

‘You look exceptionally beautiful,’ he said, holding her hands in his and settling his large liquid eyes on hers for a long moment. ‘Let me get you a drink. I’ve got gin, vodka, rum, wine and beer plus an array of mixers. And champagne, of course. But I thought we might leave that to have with lunch.’

Mimi had a snoop around the apartment while Carlo mixed the drinks in a tiny kitchen. There was a fabulous little terrace, right over the beach, a nice marble bathroom and a closed door which had to be a bedroom.

‘Let’s sit outside,’ said Carlos, bearing a tray.

They sat down in the two cane chairs. The drinks and a bowl of mixed nuts were on a little table. The usually relaxed air between them had morphed into awkwardness. She took a big gulp of her drink. It was vodka all right, or nine-tenths of it was. Within seconds it had gone to her head and she realised she’d not eaten a thing all morning.

‘Do you own this place?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I have my writing to thank for it. The down-payment was the advance for a poetry collection.’

‘Really? So writing sometimes actually pays.’

‘Yours will,’ he said. ‘You have a future there.’

She laughed. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere. But give me your worst. How do you think I’m getting on with it?’

An hour later, they were still talking about writing and she had another drink in her hand. It felt good, and any tension had evaporated in a haze of vodka, helped by the dappled sunlight and the sounds of the sea. Groups of gulls swooped in and out over the building and she watched an ape having a nap on a terrace further down while its baby bounced around like a rubber ball, playing with thin air, as kittens do.

‘Let me ask you something about Mrs. Cohen,’ she said.

‘Nothing gruesome, please,’ he warned.

She bit her lip: best to begin with something neutral. ‘She played the violin, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, how did you know? Is that her violin I’m hearing sometimes?’

‘Maybe,’ she said, trying an enigmatic smile.

‘No end to your talents, Imogen. Well, Esther was a real virtuoso. When her husband went to work in the mornings, she would begin to play and sometimes she played all day. But the music she played was so haunting it used to really affect me. She made it up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The music, it was all improvisation. But she didn’t write anything down. A big loss to the world of music, I am sure of it.’

Mimi braced herself for her next question.

‘And…did she have a daughter?’

Carlo looked away. After a moment, he said, ‘Yes, a long time ago she had a little girl. She died tragically at three months. She had a bout of diarrhoea, and Esther – who was only nineteen at the time – didn’t know about dehydration. After a couple of days, the baby seemed better. She slept peacefully but never woke up. All moisture had left her body and she was light as an eggshell.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Mimi, covering her face.

‘Esther never got over it,’ he said, ‘and she never stopped blaming herself for not taking the little girl to a doctor. And what’s worse, after the death she had a stillborn baby and a long series of miscarriages. She told me all this after her husband died. The two of them were bound by the tragedy and rarely interacted with others. Sol’s death was perhaps the last straw. That’s when she stopped making music and her addiction really took hold.’

Shocked by the story, Mimi stood up and looked over the railing. The half-knitted cardigan… Esther didn’t just get bored with knitting.

‘Did she tell you the girl’s name?’

‘Sofia,’ said Carlo.

‘How strange,’ Mimi said. ‘That’s my middle name.’

After a few moments of silence, Carlo got up too and together they stood watching the waves rolling up on the beach. A little girl threw a Frisbee right into the sea and her mother gave her a loud telling off. Nearby, two lovers were snogging heedlessly on a bright orange towel. They watched the lovers for a while.

‘Let’s go inside, shall we?’ Carlo said at last. ‘I need to feed you some real food.’

‘Let’s eat out here,’ she said.

‘Please,’ he insisted. ‘It’s too hot.’

In the living room he put his arms around her. They kissed for the first time, and she thought the kiss was – if anything – quite childish. He clearly was not practised at snogging and seemed to be trying to avoid their tongues coming into contact.

‘I better see to that lunch,’ he said, drawing back.

‘It can wait,’ she said, holding on to him.

After a moment, his long fingers worked their way over the surface of her dress to her breast. She found herself enjoying being touched. He fondled her ever so gently, teasing her nipple to a hard point. Her breath came faster and she felt herself weaken at the knees. She was getting turned on, hallelujah, she was actually wanting it for herself. Perhaps this was the man who could give her the first orgasm… That would make her coming of age truly memorable.

For a long time, they stood there. His eyes were closed, seemingly in a trance just over her pathetic little nipple. She felt a bubble of mirth rise in her throat and impatiently moved his hand down over her belly.

‘Was that not okay?’ he asked anxiously, peering down at her.

‘Yeah, it was okay,’ she said. ‘How would you feel about going to bed?

He searched her eyes. ‘How do you feel about it?’

‘I’m more concerned about you, the chastity and all that.’ She tried not to smile. ‘We don’t have to do anything.’

‘Of course,’ he said, looking relieved. ‘You’re in charge.’

The bedroom was small and ascetic, like a monk’s cell. Heavy black curtains were drawn over the window, and in the gloom she saw that Jesus was there too. He hung bleeding on a cross above the headboard. That’s going to be helpful, she thought as she kicked off her sandals and flung herself onto the narrow bed. Her head was spinning pleasantly, and she could feel the awakening inside her. Her whole body felt jittery and alive.

He stood by the bed looking down on her for a moment, as though still trying to resist the ultimate and fatal temptation. Then he took off the chain with the silver cross and laid it carefully on the bedside table.

They lay facing each other, fully clothed. ‘I won’t do anything to hurt you,’ he said.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But just so you know, I’m not a virgin.’

She saw his frown in the gloom. ‘I meant, I couldn’t penetrate you.’

‘Why not?’ she asked, flustered, remembering the condoms.

‘It’s too soon. We need to be sure.’

‘If you say so, but we can touch, right?’

When he didn’t seem to know what she meant, she took his hand and guided it over her body, her hip and belly and down under the waistband of her knickers. He clearly had no idea what was down there or what to do with it. She was wet and ready and arched her back in frustration. She put her hand under his vest and explored his cool skin, smooth and hairless, but he tensed when she began fiddling with the button of his shorts.

‘Hold on,’ she exclaimed, pulling away from him. ‘This is no good. It’s just too formal. Open the curtains and let’s get some light and air in here.’

‘Won’t it be too bright? It’ll get very hot,’ he protested feebly.

She chuckled. ‘You just don’t want to see what you’re doing.’

He hopped up and did as he was told, then lay back again and sighed deeply, as if preparing for round two.

She burst out laughing. ‘This is supposed to be fun, you know. It’s not some kind of march to the gallows.’

‘It’s a historic occasion,’ he said with a wry smile.

‘What would you like me to do?’ she said huskily, feeling brave and mature.

‘Let’s practise kissing,’ he ventured.

Kissing got better, but at the same time she felt exasperated. For once she actually felt a physical urge, the real deal: sexual arousal. It was rare, it happened mainly in her head, the thought of power over a guy and him helpless with lust. This was the other way around, Carlo was holding out on her.

A couple of times she opened her eyes and saw a man with greying hair and lines around his eyes, a man old enough to be her father. It was best to keep her eyes closed and just remember she was kissing a poet.

Their kissing petered out after a long while, and they lay on their sides trying to read each other. While she debated whether to give up on the endeavour and go get a drink of water, he reached over, pushing her dress up a little more, baring her to the waist. He hooked a finger into the elastic of her knickers and pulled it gently downwards off her hip. She could feel his eyes hot on her skin and his scrutiny paralysed her.

‘That is a very sinister tattoo,’ he said. ‘A human skull! How could you do that to yourself?’

‘I bet you like it, really,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Pull down my knickers and you can inspect it more closely.’

He didn’t move, just kept looking. Suddenly he leaned down and touched her tattoo with his tongue. A long raw groan escaped his throat and his body twitched. A stunned silence followed where only a gull shrieked in laughter outside the window. He flopped onto his back and covered his face with his hands.

‘So, what’s for lunch?’ she said. ‘I could eat a horse after all that.’

After a quiet lunch he wanted to call her a taxi, but she insisted she preferred to take the bus back to town, and Carlo did not protest for too long. He didn’t look her in the eye when they said goodbye at the door.

‘I’ll get better at this,’ he murmured, lifting her hand to his lips. ‘Like you said, there must be a manual.’

‘Thanks for my birthday party, and for the roses,’ she said.

‘Don’t sound so formal,’ he said. ‘My hope is to give you roses and champagne on every birthday.’

She walked away without looking back. Roses and champagne, my God, he’s planning ahead, she thought. At once the expression ‘sugar daddy’ popped uninvited into her head. She cringed in mortification. With her back turned to it, the whole event had an unhealthy feel. Though you could say he’d been plying her with alcohol, it was in fact she who had made the first move, merrily portraying her own idea of the mature, sophisticated seductress. She hoped she’d not awakened something in him she couldn’t deal with. What the hell was she doing, treading on such thoroughly dodgy ground? For all her sexual experimentation, she was still a kid, a virgin where orgasms were concerned. As for her feelings for the man, he was nice enough, but her yearning for a substitute father was just a fucking cliché! Dad had loved her, her older brother loved her, she did not need a sugar daddy.

It was a short walk to the bus stop between Both Worlds and Caleta Hotel. Mohammed was standing in the shade of the bus shelter, waiting for her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said with a sigh, but in fact she was ridiculously happy to find him there. If ever she needed someone normal to keep her company!

The number four came almost straight away from town. It was the end stop and it turned in a layby to go back. They waited, alone in the bus, while the driver stood outside and ate a cheese sandwich. They watched a blonde woman, whose car had been towed away, fire questions at him.

Her head was buzzing now and her mouth dry, the alcohol spent and paving the way for a hangover. She was desperate to brush her teeth, get out of her clothes and makeup and have a long hot soak in Mrs. Cohen’s giant tub. Mohammed must have sensed her discomfort.

‘Was it bad?’

She shook her head. ‘No. It was a very nice lunch. Lobster salad and champagne.’

Mohammed’s dark eyes were trying to read the truth in her face. She wanted to hug him, thank him for waiting for her, but suspicion crept into her gratitude. ‘Did Carlo tell you to wait for me and take me home, or what?’

‘Of course not. I told you. I do everything for him, but I’m not spying on you any more or buying condoms.’

‘No worries, he’s got no need for them.’

The driver had finished his sandwich but he took out a comb and began to rake it through his greasy hair. Finally, he boarded and started up the bus. There were no other passengers.

‘I looked it up on the net the other day,’ she said as they watched the scenery go past along Devil’s Tower Road. ‘Moroccans can apply for a resident’s permit as long as they’ve got a legitimate job in Gib. Didn’t you say you got a job in the mosque?’

‘Yeah, but…’

‘And you won’t need Carlo Montegriffo,’ she insisted, ‘or his permission.’

‘I owe him, you see, or I should say my parents are in his debt.’

‘Really? How come?’

‘Mr. Montegriffo is a director of a charity that helps destitute Moroccan people. He gave my parents a personal loan to pay off a debt, as long as I stay under him.’ He turned to her. ‘You are not to speak about it, Imogen. He would be very angry. This is a confidential arrangement between him and my parents.’

She felt terrible for him, and slightly outraged. Behind his pious front, was Carlo exploiting a vulnerable foreign kid? He did treat Mohammed as his personal dogsbody.

‘Can he really hold you to a loan made to your parents?’

‘Mr. Montegriffo is very powerful. He usually gets what he wants. The loan was nothing.’ Mohammed tapped his forehead. ‘It’s here where he has the power.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s my turn now. I’ll protect you.’

The young man smiled through that grim expression he wore. She noticed that his hand was holding hers. They studied each other for a moment. A glimpse of joy began to lighten his features. God, he was sweet. She leaned towards him. He was the second man she’d kissed in year eighteen.