Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof by Anna Nicholas Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anna Nicholas
obscures his grey wavy locks.
  'Did you know,' he says, fixing his bright blue eyes on me, 'that "La Balanguera" only became the national anthem in 1996.'
  'Who exactly is la balanguera ?' I ask.
  'Who indeed?' sighs Pep, inhaling deeply.
  'It's just a bit of Mallorcan folklore,' says Juana.
  Pep gives her a frown. With some impatience he taps his cigar against the table, grinding the ash under his foot. 'The words were written by Joan Alcover I Maspons, a friend of my grandfather. He had a tragic life.'
  'Why?'
  He slips me a smile. 'Probably because la balanguera decreed he should.'
  'Oh well, at least he'll be remembered,' says Juana, taking a gulp of cava and fidgeting in her chair.
  'Cold comfort,' Pep replies.
  'Let's raise a toast to la balanguera , whoever she is,' Alan says.
  We are clinking glasses when a confident young woman strides towards us. She smiles indulgently at Alan.
  'Do you live here?'
  'Thankfully, yes.'
  'Great! I wonder if you'd mind doing a brief piece to camera? I'm filming with Channel Four. Be good to get a resident Brit's perspective on the fiesta.'
  A gaunt man trails behind her in the gloom, gripping a large furry object to his chest, indicating that he's either a sound engineer or a rodent fetishist.
  Alan rises from his seat.
  'How much are you paying him?' quips Pep.
  'Nothing, I'm afraid, but he'll be on TV.'
  'Ha! Your brief moment of fame,' he cries, patting Alan on the back.
  'I must see this,' says Juana, with a certain irony in her voice.
  They walk off in the direction of the floodlit town hall, leaving Pep and me slouching lazily in our wicker chairs.
  'I'm back to London soon.'
  He yawns softly. 'So much for all your talk about starting a business over here.'
  'I'm working on something.'
  He takes a sip of cava. 'I'm listening.'
  'It's a bit complicated.'
  'The best things in life are.'
  I call over the waiter and ask for some olives and crisps.
  'I'll tell you when I'm ready.'
  He shrugs. 'By the way, I've completed the deal on that holiday flat in the port. Now that it's mine, I can start renting it next month.'
  'Congratulations.'
  We clink glasses.
  He taps my arm. 'Actually, I've asked Alan to manage the rentals. We discussed it over lunch the other day.'
  'He hasn't mentioned it yet.'
  Pep fans the air with his hand. 'It could be a lucrative little business for him. I'm too busy working on other things.'
  'What markets will you go for?'
  'Brits, Germans and Swedes, mostly.'
  I'm not sure how Alan will cope with juggling bookings for a holiday flat, but he'll no doubt enjoy greeting clients, especially Swedish hen parties. I munch on the olives brought to the table by our waiter while the boys snaffle the plate of crisps for themselves. A few minutes later Alan and Juana return, talking animatedly.
  'That producer thought Alan was a natural for TV. She's taken his details.' Juana sounds breathless.
  Pep and I share a smirk.
  'She was probably just being nice,' says the Scotsman modestly. 'Mind you, stranger things have happened.'
  We drain our glasses and Pep settles the bill before we can remonstrate.
  Pulling back his chair, he slots his old leather wallet back into his trouser pocket. 'Come on, let's leave before the stampede. Juana will prepare a light supper.'
  'Who says?' she simmers.
  'I can cook something,' I say quickly, desperate to avoid one of their bickering sessions.
  'I'm only joking,' says Juana throwing Pep a cautionary glance. 'This time.' We set off as the plaça begins to clear and overhead a stray firework crackles and splutters, unleashing a thin plume of bright fuchsia smoke into the raven
  'Did you know,' he says, fixing his bright blue eyes on me, 'that "La Balanguera" only became the national anthem in 1996.'
  'Who exactly is la balanguera ?' I ask.
  'Who indeed?' sighs Pep, inhaling deeply.
  'It's just a bit of Mallorcan folklore,' says Juana.
  Pep gives her a frown. With some impatience he taps his cigar against the table, grinding the ash under his foot. 'The words were written by Joan Alcover I Maspons, a friend of my grandfather. He had a tragic life.'
  'Why?'
  He slips me a smile. 'Probably because la balanguera decreed he should.'
  'Oh well, at least he'll be remembered,' says Juana, taking a gulp of cava and fidgeting in her chair.
  'Cold comfort,' Pep replies.
  'Let's raise a toast to la balanguera , whoever she is,' Alan says.
  We are clinking glasses when a confident young woman strides towards us. She smiles indulgently at Alan.
  'Do you live here?'
  'Thankfully, yes.'
  'Great! I wonder if you'd mind doing a brief piece to camera? I'm filming with Channel Four. Be good to get a resident Brit's perspective on the fiesta.'
  A gaunt man trails behind her in the gloom, gripping a large furry object to his chest, indicating that he's either a sound engineer or a rodent fetishist.
  Alan rises from his seat.
  'How much are you paying him?' quips Pep.
  'Nothing, I'm afraid, but he'll be on TV.'
  'Ha! Your brief moment of fame,' he cries, patting Alan on the back.
  'I must see this,' says Juana, with a certain irony in her voice.
  They walk off in the direction of the floodlit town hall, leaving Pep and me slouching lazily in our wicker chairs.
  'I'm back to London soon.'
  He yawns softly. 'So much for all your talk about starting a business over here.'
  'I'm working on something.'
  He takes a sip of cava. 'I'm listening.'
  'It's a bit complicated.'
  'The best things in life are.'
  I call over the waiter and ask for some olives and crisps.
  'I'll tell you when I'm ready.'
  He shrugs. 'By the way, I've completed the deal on that holiday flat in the port. Now that it's mine, I can start renting it next month.'
  'Congratulations.'
  We clink glasses.
  He taps my arm. 'Actually, I've asked Alan to manage the rentals. We discussed it over lunch the other day.'
  'He hasn't mentioned it yet.'
  Pep fans the air with his hand. 'It could be a lucrative little business for him. I'm too busy working on other things.'
  'What markets will you go for?'
  'Brits, Germans and Swedes, mostly.'
  I'm not sure how Alan will cope with juggling bookings for a holiday flat, but he'll no doubt enjoy greeting clients, especially Swedish hen parties. I munch on the olives brought to the table by our waiter while the boys snaffle the plate of crisps for themselves. A few minutes later Alan and Juana return, talking animatedly.
  'That producer thought Alan was a natural for TV. She's taken his details.' Juana sounds breathless.
  Pep and I share a smirk.
  'She was probably just being nice,' says the Scotsman modestly. 'Mind you, stranger things have happened.'
  We drain our glasses and Pep settles the bill before we can remonstrate.
  Pulling back his chair, he slots his old leather wallet back into his trouser pocket. 'Come on, let's leave before the stampede. Juana will prepare a light supper.'
  'Who says?' she simmers.
  'I can cook something,' I say quickly, desperate to avoid one of their bickering sessions.
  'I'm only joking,' says Juana throwing Pep a cautionary glance. 'This time.' We set off as the plaça begins to clear and overhead a stray firework crackles and splutters, unleashing a thin plume of bright fuchsia smoke into the raven
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