The Party
The Lingo Loco!
Chapter 7: The Party
I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling fan flying around
above my head. Last night is a complete blank. I vaguely
remember causing chaos with some kid called Leo, and
dancing around in a dark nightclub to electronic music,
but pretty much everything else is a hazy blur. Chris
snores loudly beneath his sheets, and shuffling into the
bathroom I turn on the shower and attempt to sober up. I
feel like shit. My throat is soar and my head is banging.
The cold water rains down on me, and feeling fresher I
find the strength to wash myself with shower gel. Standing
with my arms by my sides, I watch the soapsuds disappear
down the plughole along with the sins of last night. Drying
myself with a lovely clean towel I wrap it around my waist
and return to the bedroom. Chris is sat upright in his bed
and watches the small portable telly attached to the wall.
He finds the Warner Channel and begins to watch The
Gilmore Girls – a popular American TV show set in a
provincial town in Connecticut, about the relationship
between a single mum in her thirties and her teenage
daughter. I wonder which one he fancies – the mum or,
after last night, the daughter.
‘How do you feel, Chris?’
‘Like I’ve just spent the night with a gang of Hell’s
Angels,’ he replies, his eyes fixed to the TV screen. ‘I’m
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never drinking again.’
‘You always say that.’
He turns to me and shakes his head. ‘No, I’m serious,
never again. I feel sick.’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it. Hey, how did we get home?’
‘Taxi, I think. Just after you karate kicked me in the ribs.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yeah, you bastard, I’m in agony.’
‘I’m sorry, I totally forgot about that.’
‘I think I’ve broken a rib,’ he mumbles, wincing in pain
as he adjusts his position.
‘Maybe you should see a doctor.’
‘Fuck that, I’m going to chill out here all day and see how
I feel later.’
‘Good idea. Take full advantage of the room.’
Slipping on a clean pair of boxer shorts under my towel,
I dry myself and spray some deodorant under my pits.
‘I’m starving,’ Chris smiles. ‘Are you going to pop out and
grab some food?’
‘What did your last slave die of?’
‘Come on, I can’t move. I’m in pain here!’
Feeling guilty for kung-fu kicking his ass, I feel obliged
to agree. ‘Yeah, OK, what shall I get?’
He turns to me, and smiles. ‘Pizza!’
Pulling a white T-shirt over my head, I catch my hand in
the ceiling fan that spins around at a million miles an hour
above the beds. One of the fan’s propeller blades slices
into my index finger with incredible force. I collapse to the
floor and roll around clutching my hand in pain.
‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE!’ I scream. ‘Who in their fucking
right mind fixes a ceiling fan so low down?’
I study my mangled finger and shiver at the sight of the
dark red blood pumping out of the deep cut. Chris shows
absolutely no sympathy and laughs, so I grab my little
rucksack off the floor and throw it at him. The rucksack
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slams into his side and while I clasp my wounded finger,
Chris presses a hand against his ribs and we both scream
in pain. I eventually drag myself to the bathroom and
quickly wash the cut under the tap. I’ve never seen so
much blood. Fixing a plaster around my finger, I slip on
my jeans and head out into the corridor. The owner of the
hotel is standing outside the room and jumps when I open
the door. He quickly pretends to straighten a picture on the
wall, but I know his ear was pressed to the door when we
were screaming our tits off. I don’t blame him for investigating;
there’s nothing worse than having a messy murder
in your nice clean hotel.
Glancing at the clock on the wall behind the reception
desk, I see that it’s midday. Exiting the hotel, I fight past a
crowd of people waiting at the bus stop and take refuge in
a pizza restaurant a few doors down. It’s a scruffy joint,
with people hunched over tables watching a Chilean soap
opera on the large TV. Studying the hand-written menu, I
order a chicken and sweet corn pizza from the friendly
lady serving the tables. She informs me it will be twenty
minutes, so I pay for the food and head further down the
road to an internet café. Quickly checking my email I find
one from Martina, the girl from Salta we’d met in
Mendoza. I read her email and scribble down her mobile
number before sending a couple of quick “holas” to my
family and a “Suck it!” to my friend Dermot. With
Martina’s mobile number at the ready, I use the phone
kiosk in the internet café to call her. I feel unreasonably
nervous as the phone connects, and hearing her voice on
the other end of the line my mind goes blank.
‘Hi, hola! Martina?’
‘Hello,’ she replies.
I hear the noise of traffic in the background and can tell
she’s outside somewhere.
‘It’s Simon from England! We met in Mendoza.’
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‘Hi Simon,’ she excitedly replies. ‘Cómo estás?’
‘Muy bien, gracias. Where are you?’
‘I’m in Salta.’
‘Me too!’ I cry, wiping perspiration from my forehead.
‘Would you like to meet for a drink?’
‘Yes, I am free today, Simon. Where are you now?’
‘I’m near my hotel on Avenue San Martin. It’s close to the
city centre.’
‘OK, I am on my way to Plaza 9 de Julio. You know
where that is?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘It’s the main plaza in Salta.’
‘No problem, I’ll find it.’
‘I’ll be outside the Cabildo at one o’clock.’
‘Perfecto, hasta pronto,’ I smile, trying to impress her
with my Spanish.
‘Ciao.’
‘Bye.’
With a skip in my step and a big grin across my face, I
pick up the pizza and run back to the room. The manager
of the hotel is standing behind the reception desk, but he
chooses to ignore me.
‘Good lad!’ Chris beams, as I toss the pizza onto his lap.
He winces again as he props himself up in bed.
‘Hey, I spoke to Martina when I was out.’
‘No way, how did you get her number?’
‘She sent me an email. I’m meeting her in…’ I glance at
the alarm clock, ‘…less than half an hour.’
‘Cool, say hi from me.’
‘Yeah, will do, I’d better go. Are you going to be all right?’
‘No worries, dude, go for it. I’m going to chill out and eat
pizza.’
‘You fat bastard.’
Piling three slices of pizza into a stack, Chris takes a
huge bite and swallows it down. ‘Food’s energy,’ he winks.
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I race out of the hotel and hang a left down the pedestrian
shopping street. There’s music on every street corner as
people rush around the shops spending their hard-earned
cash. Avoiding an impressive Michael Jackson impersonator
Moon Walking across the street in front of me, I battle
through the crowds and quickly find myself at Plaza 9 de
Julio. The large square is literally teeming with people sat
outside pavement cafés, and couples and families walking
hand-in-hand and arm-in-arm in the sunshine. Finding the
Cabildo, an impressive 18th Century white colonial building
that holds the Museo Histórico del Norte, I wait patiently
for Martina beneath one of its many arches and see many
other guys also waiting nervously in the shadows. The
clock strikes exactly one o’clock and I see Martina heading
towards me across the plaza. I quickly pop a mint in my
mouth.
‘Como estas?’ she beams, nervously kissing me on both
cheeks.
We stand there for a few seconds and laugh at our situation.
She looks stunning in a bright pink pair of peddlepushers,
matching flip-flops and a turquoise vest top.
She’s tied her thick black hair back in a ponytail with a red
scrunchy, and hides her beautiful eyes behind a pair of
Jacki Onassis style shades. We saunter over to a pavement
café and find a table beneath a bright yellow umbrella. I
order a café latte and Martina asks for freshly squeezed
orange juice with ice.
‘You survived the mountains, then?’ I grin.
‘Yes, it was very hard work. We walked a long way but it
was beautiful, Simon. I felt very close to God.’
‘Wow, uh…it sounds amazing.’
‘It was,’ she giggles, taking off her shades to reveal her
beautiful dark eyes. ‘It is strange to see you in my city. Do
you like it in Salta?’
‘Absolutely, we went out in Balcarce last night. I feel a
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little hungover.’
‘Ah, you found the party. It is fun here during the holidays.
How is Chris, is he hungover, too?’
‘Yeah, he has hurt his…he’s eating a big pizza and chilling
out in the hotel room. He doesn’t feel very well.’
Martina frowns. ‘He eats a big pizza when he is ill?’
‘Oh, uh…yeah, it’s one of those big healthy pizzas, which
are full of goodness…hey, let’s not worry about him. He’ll
be right as rain by tomorrow.’
‘You said on the phone that your hotel isn’t far from
here.’
‘No, it’s just down that pedestrian street over there. It’s a
lovely hotel called the Munay on Avenue San Martin.’
‘Yes, I know it. It is a little bit scary in that area.’
‘Not really, it’s cool. There’s a great bar called Papa
Panchos.’
‘Papa Panchos! Is it on the corner?’
‘Yes, they play great music and the burgers are fantastic.’
‘Papa Panchos is for losers, Simon.’
‘Well, I like it.’
‘You like everything,’ Martina laughs.
‘I don’t like bull’s testicles.’
‘Bull’s testicles?’
‘It doesn’t matter. So, what have you been doing this
morning?’
‘I have been shopping!’ she cries, opening the designer
carrier bag by her feet and pulling out a brand new pair of
shiny black shoes. ‘It is my father’s birthday today. He is
fifty years old, so I buy him these shoes. They are for dancing
Tango.’
‘Wow, cool, they’re nice.’ I take one of the shoes and sniff
inside. ‘Yeah, they’re really nice.’
Martina looks horrified. ‘Why do you do this?’
‘I love the smell of new shoes.’
‘New shoes?’
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‘Yes.’
‘Do all people in England do this?’
‘Uh, I don’t know, maybe.’
She shakes her head and places the shoes back inside the
box. ‘You are a crazy English boy.’
I laugh and take a sip of coffee. ‘So, Martina, what are
you studying in Buenos Aires?’
‘Economics and politics, I want to be a journalist.’
‘That sounds interesting.’
‘Yes, but it’s very hard to get a job for a newspaper. I’m
not sure what to do next.’
‘You’ll find a way in. You seem like a bright girl.’
‘I hope so. Are you a student, too?’
‘No, that was ages ago when I lived in London. At the
moment I work in crappy jobs.’
‘What is crappy?’
‘It means not very good.’
‘Why would you work in not very good jobs?’ she asks,
sipping her orange juice.
‘To get quick easy money, I’m a writer too.’
Martina’s eyes light up. ‘Wow, what do you write?’
‘Travel mainly. We drove across Russia.’
‘Russia? Oh, I love travel books! One day I will travel
again. Do you have one with you?’
‘No, but when I return home I can send you a copy if you
like?’
‘Thank you, that would be fantastic,’ she beams.
‘No problem.’
‘Simon, I was telling my mother about you and your
brother, and she has invited you both to our house for my
father’s birthday party tonight. My parents would love to
meet you.’
‘Meet your parents?’
Martina laughs. ‘Yes, don’t look so worried, you can see
how the Indians live.’
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‘Great, do you live in a wigwam?’
‘Yes, and we wear the skin of animals and hunt with
spears.’
‘Well, in that case I’m definitely interested!’
We finish our drinks and walk through the plaza. It feels
great to be in the company of such an attractive girl. We sit
on a bench for a while opposite the grand Cathedral.
‘I feel so much love for Jesus today,’ Martina muses. ‘Are
you Catholic, Simon?’
‘No, I’m not really anything. People aren’t very religious
in England these days.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not really sure. I guess it kind of went out of fashion.
Personally, I find the idea of Mary being a virgin and all
that miracles malarkey a little hard to believe, to be honest
with you.’
‘Malarkey, Simon? What is a malarkey?’
‘It means foolish talk.’
Martina looks shocked. ‘Jesus and the bible is not foolish
talk!’
‘I’m sorry I don’t mean to offend you. Maybe this is the
wrong time to be having this conversation.’
‘Don’t you believe in the words of the bible and the story
of Jesus?’
‘Not literally, no. I’m sure there was a guy called Jesus
who inspired a few Jewish people two thousand years ago,
but the credibility of the bible is so controversial. I mean,
how do you justify following a doctrine that believes the
earth was created only ten thousand years ago by a supernatural
being?’
‘I feel Jesus with me right now, so I know it is true.’
‘I’m sorry Martina, if you need Jesus you keep him. It’s
none of my business. Don’t listen to me.’
‘Simon, please don’t patronize me. I am an intelligent
woman. I think you don’t believe in God because you have
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never allowed yourself to be loved by Jesus. It is the prejudice
of your upbringing. The people in my country love
to go to church and pray for each other. That is why you
are always drinking too much in your country and fighting
each other. Maybe if everyone believed in Lord Jesus
Christ, you would be happier.’
Martina glances down at her watch. ‘Oh, it is three
o’clock, I must return to my house. Please, you and your
brother come to my father’s party tonight.’
‘Are you sure it’s OK?’
She nods enthusiastically. ‘I would like that very much.
You can meet my brother.’
‘What time shall we arrive?’
‘Eight o’clock. Let me write down the address for you.’
Scribbling directions on a piece of paper, including the
number of the bus to her house, we kiss and part company.
* * *
Dressed in our smartest backpacker clothes and carrying
two cheap, but expensive looking bottles of wine, the bus
pulls over in San Lorenzo – an exclusive residential area
fifteen minutes outside Salta. Jumping off the bus we see
Martina parked up on the opposite side of the road in a
black VW GOL. The sweet smell of the countryside immediately
fills our nostrils; it’s a pleasant smell that is far
from the polluted Avenue San Martin where we’re staying
in downtown Salta. Racing over to Martina, Si climbs into
the front of the brand new car and kisses her on both
cheeks.
‘I thought you might get lost,’ she smiles. ‘So I wait for
you. I know how stupid you English boys are.’
We laugh and watch as she thrusts the car into gear and
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rallies down the quiet road. Taking a sharp left down an
even smaller road we quickly reach the gates of a large
white house. Martina swings the car onto the gravel driveway
and parks up beside a Mercedes Benz.
‘Welcome to my home,’ she beams.
We fall out of the car and look at each other over the roof.
Si winks and points to the house, while I nod excitedly
and catch sight of an enormous swimming pool in the back
garden. Floodlights illuminate the massive garden with its
patio area, barbecue and ornamental pond. Martina locks
the car and quickly checks her appearance in the reflection
of the glass. Without saying a word, we follow her to
the front door and quickly dust ourselves down and tidy
up our messy hair. The wooden door swings open and a
little brown dog dashes out and begins yapping around
our feet. Next to appear is Martina’s mother, who looks
amazing. She has a blonde bob and is wearing a perfectly
fitted red evening dress. I fancy the pants off her! Martina’s
father follows close behind. He’s a serious looking dude
with a moustache, and wears a blue shirt tucked into his
beige trousers. He shakes our hands without smiling, and
I get the distinct impression he takes an instant dislike to
us both. We smile and try our hardest to be polite. Next is
the brother. Dressed in a short sleeved lemon coloured
shirt with a navy blue jumper tied around his neck, he
looks deeply pretentious. He doesn’t smile at us either; he
just shakes our hands and walks back inside the house,
charming. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. We
step inside and prepare ourselves for a long night.
The inside of the house is beautiful, with a large marble
entrance hall and a gorgeous sweeping staircase that
reaches up to a landing and a huge stained glass window.
The patterned wallpaper looks expensive and so do the
many ornaments dotted around. I’m not sure whether to
wipe my feet on the doormat or take off my dirty trainers.
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Martina sees my uncertainty and tells me not to worry,
which is an absolute relief as my socks have holes in them
and my trainers smell like the guts of a dead cow.
Following Si through the entrance hall, we turn into a
large room with red curtains that drape down to the wooden
floor. Spotlights illuminate a brand new snooker table in
the corner of the room, with the balls laid out in position.
They look so shiny and the green velvet cloth is so bright,
I just want to lie on it and caress the damn thing. Brown
leather sofas and a large fireplace dominate an impressive
lounge and a 42-inch plasma screen is fixed to the wall.
We’re led into another large room with a huge dinning
table in the middle that has been laid out with plates and
cutlery and decorated with flowers. Another table close by
is overloaded with turkey, pork, cheese and bowls of salad,
fresh fruit and cakes. Si gives Martina’s father our wine
and he smirks when he studies the label. The doorbell
rings and a whole bunch of Martina’s family enter the dinning
room, from uncles and aunts to nephews and
cousins. We introduce ourselves and try to communicate
with them in Spanish. Everyone is wearing smart evening
clothes, and even a few of the little rug-rats running
around have got bow ties on. I glance down at my T-shirt
and jeans and shake my head. Ah, who cares, we’re travelling
across South America on an adventure through the
hot jungle and across dangerous terrain – we don’t own a
fucking bow tie! There’s a lot of whispering and pointing
going on, which I can sort of understand as we have just
gatecrashed a family birthday party. Marina’s dad taps a
wineglass with a spoon and invites everyone to take a seat
around the table. Martina shows us to our seats before disappearing
into the kitchen. Si looks uncomfortable as he
sits opposite Martina’s brother, and much to my delight
I’m positioned right next to her sexy mum.
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* * *
I can feel Gustavo’s eyes burning into my sweaty face. I
flash him a friendly smile, but he just stares back at me
and chews on a piece of turkey.
‘Martina tells me you’re a doctor,’ I ask, trying hard to
break the ice.
‘No,’ he replies, sounding quite hostile. ‘I am not doctor
now. I am student of medicine.’
‘Oh, OK, what will you do after you finish university?’
‘I will be doctor!’ he sighs, looking at me like I’m the
dumbest piece of shit he’s ever encountered.
‘It must be really satisfying to know that someday you
will be saving lives. What kind of medicine would you
like to practice?’
‘Plastic surgery,’ he replies coldly.
‘Oh, I see…well, I’m sure plastic surgery helps people,
too,’ I smile innocently. ‘You know, with burns and deformities.’
He shakes his head. ‘I will be cosmetic surgeon. Maybe I
go to California. Do you know nothing of Argentina?’
‘Uh, I’m not sure what you mean?’
‘You English are so stupid,’ he mutters. ‘We have many
problems in Argentina. We lose everything. We do not
have the same choices as you in Europe.’
I take a sip of wine and glance around the room. ‘Well, it
sure doesn’t look like you’ve done too badly. This house is
amazing.’
Gustavo looks ready to explode. ‘My father works for a
company overseas. We were lucky. I want to be like my
father.’
‘Money isn’t everything,’ I smile, sawing a piece of turkey
in half.
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‘It is important to me!’ he cries, pointing at his chest.
Choosing to ignore Gustavo, I pick up my glass of wine
and take a large sip. The two kids to my left clumsily tuck
into their dinner and the ancient Grandma at the far side
of the table dozes gently with her knife and fork in her
hands. I look over at Chris and see Martina’s mum serving
up food onto his plate. He stares wide-eyed down her
plunging cleavage that’s thrust in his face. I try not to
laugh.
Martina returns to her seat and smiles sweetly. ‘Do you
like the food, Simon?’
‘Yeah, it’s delicious,’ I reply, wiping my mouth on a
hanky.
‘I made the avocado salad and that big chocolate cake
over on the table.’
‘Wow, you’re quite the little chef.’
‘Gracias, I would make a very good wife,’ she giggles,
fluttering her eyelashes.
Looking into her beautiful eyes, I can’t help but agree.
Seeing her father in the corner of my eye throwing daggers
at me across the table, I look away and take another large
sip of wine.
* * *
After some tasty food and a few uncomfortable conversations
with Martina’s dad about the Falklands War and football,
one of the uncles slips on some lively Tango music on
the stereo. Everyone slowly moves away from the table
and filters out onto the patio. I still feel a bit sick from the
night before and my ribs are killing me, so I refill my glass
with wine in a bid to block out the pain and discomfort. I
catch up with Si and Martina, and we all step out into the
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back garden and watch the kids dance with sparklers
around the floodlit swimming pool. Chatting to Martina
for a while about Salta, I notice she’s a little drunk. Si
chats to one of the uncles and keeps looking over his
shoulder at her. From the expression on his face I can tell
he’s trying to think of ways he can get her alone. I take
another sip of wine and hear my stomach growl again.
This isn’t good at all, and I know from past experience that
it’s only a matter of seconds before I throw up. Taking a
handful of deep breaths, I race around the side of the
house and vomit all down the front of my T-shirt. It’s not
a huge amount of sick, but it stinks. I quickly wipe it off
with my hand and check to see if the coast is clear. What
a mess, I can’t rock back to the party smelling of sick. I
think fast. In the corner of my eye, I see a bucket full of
rainwater next to a wooden fence. I run over to it and start
scooping water onto my T-shirt. The sick washes away, but
my T-shirt is now soaking wet through. My mind races, I
glance down at my full wine glass still clenched tightly in
my hand and instinctively pour the entire contents down
my front. I stumble around the corner of the house and
back onto the patio. Si and Martina glare at my T-shirt covered
in red wine.
‘Where’s your bib, fat boy?’ Si laughs.
‘I’ve spilt wine down my T-shirt,’ I reply, straightening
my posture.
‘Yeah, we can see that, you numb-nuts.’
‘It was an accident.’
I see Martina’s mum running towards us across the garden.
She fusses around me, causing a commotion that draws
the attention of everyone standing outside. Much to my
shame – and pleasure in some respects, she takes my hand
and leads me inside the house and over to the kitchen
sink. She grabs a sponge and begins scrubbing the stain. I
look at her face and peer down at her red lips. She looks
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up and smiles.
‘Sorry,’ I laugh.
‘Por que? It was accident, no?’
She struggles with the stain for a few minutes, before
suggesting I change into one of her husband’s shirts
instead.
I drop my smile. ‘Are you sure? It’s not a problem, it’ll
wipe off.’
She eagerly grabs my hand again. ‘No problemo, Chris.
My husband has very many clothes.’
Leading me upstairs to a plush bedroom with a huge
king-size bed and a big en-suite bathroom, she swings
open the stand-up wardrobe and whips a polo shirt off the
hanger. Holding the polo shirt up to my chest she leans
back and studies its size.
She shakes her head and grabs another one off the rack.
‘Perfecto,’ she smiles handing me the shirt.
I wait for her to exit the room while I change, but she
doesn’t. I shyly pull my T-shirt over my head and slip on
the polo shirt while she stands back and admires my body.
The party is in full swing when we head back downstairs.
Cheesy pop music blasts from speakers, and many
of the intoxicated uncles mingle in the garden and dance
with their unimpressed wives. Kids run around the house
and the old Grandma sits on a chair in the corner of the
kitchen. Platefuls of delicious food are still laid out on the
table, and as I pass by I notice our cheap-but-expensivelooking
bottles of red wine are unopened and placed on
the floor. I can’t seem to find Si or Martina anywhere, so I
walk out onto the patio and try to mingle by the pool. I feel
a little self-conscious wearing Martina’s dad’s polo shirt,
and I can tell all of the uncles and aunts have clocked that
I’ve changed my top. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. I head
back inside the house and grab another glass of wine. My
stomach feels better now, less bloated. There’s nothing
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worse than projectile vomiting in public. The last time it
happened was when I was walking down Oxford Street in
London during rush hour. I projectile vomited over the
shoppers before running behind the bins at the back of
Marks & Spencer. I’d used a pair of soiled boxer shorts
from my bag to wipe my mouth. It was all very embarrassing.
Just as I’m about to enter the house Martina’s dad steps out
in front of me. He looks down at his polo shirt, and frowns.
‘Yeah, this is yours,’ I smile, pointing at the polo shirt.
‘You won’t believe what happened.’
He folds his big hairy arms and waits patiently for my
explanation.
‘Well, I spilt red wine on my T-shirt, you see, and your
wife helped me wipe it clean, but she couldn’t get the stain
out. She said it was OK if I borrowed one of your shirts, so
I went upstairs with your wife into your, uh…bedroom
and she gave me one – a polo shirt that is!’ I clear my throat
and dart glances around the garden. Easy tiger, you’re digging
a hole here. ‘I hope that’s OK?’
I laugh falsely and wait for him to smile too, but there’s
no reaction. He continues to frown. Say something you
prick. Tell me it’s not a problem. Tell me it’s cool to wear
your fucking shirt. Martina’s brother slides up and looks at
me like I’ve just taken a shit in their nice clean swimming
pool. He glances down at his dad’s polo shirt, and frowns.
Oh, not you as well. They both shake their heads and walk
off. Where the hell is Si? I pop inside the house and fill up
a glass with red wine, and just as I’m about to take a big old
gulp a clumsy rug-rat runs past me with his remote control
car and knocks into my arm. The wine pours out of the
glass, and instead of flowing merrily into my mouth it
decides to take a detour all over Martina’s dad’s crisp
white polo shirt.
‘You fucking idiot!’ I scream.
The little kid laughs and disappears around the corner.
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‘I’ll fucking kill ya!’
I look and see Grandma staring at me from the corner of
the kitchen. I smile and wave to her. She doesn’t wave
back. I turn my attention to the huge red stain covering the
front of the polo shirt. Can this night get any worse? What
shall I do? Martina’s dad is going to rip my head off. I think
fast. What gets red wine out? Think you twat! Ah, salt! I
run over to the kitchen cupboards and slam them open.
Salt, salt, where are you…got ya! I snatch a pot of salt out
of the cupboard and race over to the downstairs toilet. It’s
occupied. I race up the grand staircase and head for the
bathroom – it’s occupied too. I spin on my heels and try to
think fast. Suddenly, I remember there’s an en-suite in
Martina’s parent’s bedroom. I dive inside and close the
door. I whip the polo shirt over my head and stare at
myself in the reflection of the mirror. What a fucking mess,
sort it out, Chris. I look down at the creased polo shirt in
my hand and the red stain.
‘He’s going to fucking kill me!’
I fill the sink with hot water and pour some salt into the
basin. Grabbing a bar of pink soap out of the shower, I
plunge it into the water and begin scrubbing the stain. I
check after a few seconds but it doesn’t seem to be disappearing,
so I grab a pair of Martina’s mum’s lacy knickers
hanging on a small clotheshorse and use them to scrub
harder. Sweat runs into my eyes and my heart pounds
inside my chest. Pausing, I raise the shirt up to the light
and I can still see the red and pink stain. The shirt is
ruined. I consider climbing out of the bathroom window
and making a run for it, but I haven’t got a clue where San
Lorenzo is in relation to Salta. I’ll never be able to find my
way back to the hotel and, anyway, running for the hills is
no way to solve this unfortunate problem, hmm, or is it? I
stop and study the pair of knickers in my hand. They look
so beautiful. I smile and study them some more. Fuck,
90
what am I doing? I return to the problem at hand and
throw the knickers back onto the clotheshorse. I don’t have
a choice other than to go back downstairs and try and find
my T-shirt. Wringing the water out of the polo shirt I pull
it over my head. It looks a hundred times worse than it did
before, with huge creases across the front. I scurry back out
onto the landing, and hear voices coming up the stairs – it’s
Martina’s brother! I leap inside a bedroom and hide in the
darkness behind the door. I wait for a few seconds before
poking my head around the door and seeing it’s clear, I
slowly edge my way back out onto the landing. Dashing
down the staircase I slide into the kitchen. The Grandma
looks at me and then at the stain on my shirt. I smile and
shrug my shoulders and run into the lounge. Martina’s dad
enters the room through an adjoining door, but I see him
just in the nick of time and dive behind one of the leather
sofas. I crouch there like a coward, so much for being
James Bond. He wouldn’t give a shit; he’d just throw the
shirt into the washing machine and tell the dad to chill.
Maybe I should do that. Where’s my T-shirt come to think
of it? Maybe it’s in the kitchen. I peer over the sofa and see
that Martina’s dad has left the room. I jump up, and to the
surprise of the family members watching TV, I sprint out
of the lounge and back into the kitchen. The Grandma
stares at me. I smile and wave at her, but she doesn’t wave
back. I scan the kitchen and fail to see my T-shirt. I rack
my brain and remember noticing there were a few white
polo shirts in the wardrobe that looked similar to this one.
Maybe I could grab another. They won’t know the difference.
I race back up the stairs to the bedroom and flick on the
light in the wardrobe. I see a white polo shirt and tear it off
the hanger. I’m nearly there; soon this nightmare will be
over. I look down at the stained shirt in my hand.
‘The bin!’ I cry.
With a smile, I race back downstairs and skirt around the
91
side of the house to a bin near the front door, which is full
of rubbish. I take Martina’s dad’s polo shirt and stuff it
inside the bin and slam down the lid. The smell is unbearable,
but it’s worth the torture. I’m out of breath and seriously
in need of a drink, so I casually walk around the side
of the house and over to the pool where I see Si and
Martina sitting at a table.
The rest of the evening is perfect. Everyone has a little
dance, a drink and a few laughs. Even Martina’s dad and
brother, who don’t appear to have noticed my change of
clothes, laugh at some of my jokes and seem to be finally
warming to us both. Not only that, Martina’s mum dashes
over to me with my T-shirt that is ironed, folded and without
a stain. I’m so happy. I take off her husband’s shirt and
slip on my nice clean T-shirt, and Martina’s dad shakes our
hands and invites us back to the house whenever we like.
I think he’s a little drunk.
We leave around 3am. Most of Martina’s family left a few
hours ago, with the exception of the little rug-rat that
knocked my arm earlier. He’s still here farting around with
his remote control car. Oh, and Grandma is still sitting in
the kitchen watching the plants grow. We slowly make our
way to the front door to catch a taxi back to Salta. We’re all
stood outside when the taxi arrives, and after kisses and
hugs we fall into the car and look forward to our beds. As
we wave out of the back window, I see the little rug-rat
drive his remote control car into the bin where I stuffed
Martina’s dad’s shirt. I look in horror as the bin lid flies off
and rolls on the ground beside Martina’s dad’s feet. He
picks up the lid, and just as he is about to put it back in
place he stops and reaches down inside. My jaw drops and
my head explodes when I see him retrieve his stained polo
shirt out of the bin. His face turns red with anger and he
begins to shout as the taxi disappears down the street.
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