LITMIR.BIZ

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office. Why don’t you pick it up on Monday and we can go through all the bumph? Might have a spot of lunch.’

      ‘Done.’

      But Julian won’t let me go. Rather than return to Sofía and Saul, he lingers in the corner, engaging me in a mind-numbing conversation about Manchester United’s chances in this year’s Champions League.

      ‘If we can just see our way past Juventus in the second group phase, there’s every chance we’ll draw Madrid in the quarter-finals.’

      This goes on for ten minutes. Perhaps he is enjoying the male camaraderie, a chance to talk to somebody other than Sofía. Julian has always held me in the highest esteem, valuing my opinion on anything from Iraq to Nasser Hussain, and is strangely deferential in approach.

      Behind me, Saul is sounding enamoured of Sofía, laughing at her jokes and doing his best to talk me down.

      ‘Yeah, we were just saying how friends change in their twenties. It’s tough staying loyal to some of them.’ This is all very pointedly within my earshot. ‘I think people used to think I was a bit of an idiot for hanging out with Alec, you know, but I felt sorry for him. There was a time when he really tested me, when I felt like cutting the rope, only I didn’t want to be the sort of person who bailed out on his mates when they were in trouble, know what I mean?’

      I can’t hear Sofía’s response. Her voice is naturally quieter than Saul’s and she is speaking out into the room, with Julian in full flow leaning into me for greater emphasis.

      ‘I mean, most people would now agree that Roy Keane is not the player he was. Injuries have taken their toll–hip surgery, knee ligaments–he simply can’t get up and down like he used to. I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes to Celtic next season.’

      ‘Really? You think so?’ It’s a struggle to remember the name of Manchester United’s manager. ‘Alex Ferguson would be prepared to sell him?’

      ‘Well, that’s the million-dollar question. With Becks almost certainly off, would he want to lose Keano as well?’

      Saul has started talking again and I try to pivot my body against the cigarette machine so that I can still hear his conversation. He’s saying that he’s known me since childhood, that he has no idea what I’m doing out here in Spain.

      ‘…one day he just upped and left and none of us have seen him since.’

      Sofía sounds understandably inquisitive, although it’s still impossible to hear what she’s saying. Now Julian is asking me if I want a couple of spare tickets to the Bernabéu. Was that a question about London? Saul’s answer contains the phrase ‘oil business’ and now I really start to worry. Somehow I have to break away from Julian and intrude to stop their conversation.

      ‘Do you have a cigarette?’

      I have turned and stepped up to them, my weight shifted awkwardly onto one leg, looking unguardedly at Saul as an instruction to make him shut up. He pauses mid-sentence, extracts a Camel Light and passes it to me saying, ‘Sure.’ Sofía looks startled–she has never seen me smoking–but Julian is too busy offering me a light to notice.

      ‘I thought you gave up?’ he asks.

      ‘I did. I just like having one every now and again. Late nights and weekends. What were you two talking about? My ears were burning.’

      ‘Your past,’ Sofía says, fanning smoke away from her face. ‘Saul says you’re a man of mystery, Alex. Did you know that, darling?’

      Julian, checking messages on his mobile phone, says, ‘Sí, yup,’ and heads outside in search of better reception.

      ‘He also said you worked in the oil business?’

      ‘Briefly. Very briefly. Then I got a job at Reuters and they shipped me out to Russia. What do you do, Sofía?’

      She grins and looks up at the ceiling.

      ‘I’m a clothes designer, Alex. For women. Didn’t you ask me that at the Christmas party?’

      The tone of the question is unambiguously flirtatious. She needs to cool it or Saul will cotton on. In an attempt to change the subject, I say that I once saw Pedro Almodóvar drinking in the bar, sitting at a table not too far from where we are standing. It’s a lie–a friend saw him–but enough to interest Saul.

      ‘Really? That’s like going to London and seeing the Queen.’

      ‘Qué?’ Sofía says, her English momentarily confused. ‘You saw the Queen here?’

      And, thankfully, the misunderstanding engenders the conversation I had hoped for: Saul’s lifelong distaste for Almodóvar’s movies perfectly at odds with Sofía’s loyal, madrileñian obsession.

      ‘My favourite I think is Todo Sobre Mi Madre,’ she says, summoning a wistful look more appropriate to a lovestruck teenager. ‘How would you translate in English? Everything About My Mother. It’s so generous, so…’ she looks at me and produces the word ‘inventive’.

      ‘Total bullshit,’ Saul says, and Sofía looks startled. He’s more drunk than I had realized and may have misjudged the wonders of the Ricken charm. ‘Worst movie I’ve seen in the last five years. Facile, adolescent, piss poor.’

      Silence. Sofía slides me a look.

      ‘You get–what?–transvestites and pregnant nuns and benign hookers and what does it all add up to? Nothing. AIDS is just co-opted for cheap emotional impact. Or the new one, Talk to Her. I’m supposed to feel sympathetic towards a retarded necrophiliac? None of it makes any sense. There’s no recognizable human emotion in Almodóvar’s movies, and I’ll tell you why–because he’s too juvenile to cope with real suffering. The whole thing’s a camp pantomime. But his films are shot so beautifully you’re tricked into thinking you’re in the presence of an artist.’

      The outburst allows me to speak to Sofía in Spanish, as if to apologize for Saul getting out of hand.

      ‘I’m going to make an excuse and get us out of here,’ I tell her, speaking quickly and employing as much slang as I can. Then, looking at Saul as if to laugh him off, ‘Don’t believe everything my friend has told you. He’s drunk. And he’s in a difficult mood.’

      ‘What are you saying?’

      ‘Alex was just telling me that you love the cinema,’ Sofía tells him quickly. ‘But I don’t think this can be true. How can you love cinema if you don’t love Pedro Almodóvar?’

      ‘It’s a Madrid thing,’ I explain. Saul makes a sucking noise with his teeth. ‘Almodóvar came onto the scene after Franco, made a lot of risqué comedies; they associate him with freedom and excess. He’s a cultural icon.’

      ‘Exactly,’ Sofía nods. ‘It is very English of you not to embrace him. The films are crazy, of course they are, but you mustn’t be so literal about it.’

      Saul looks contrite. ‘Well, we don’t have anyone comparable in England,’ he says, which may be his way of apologizing. ‘Maybe Hitchcock, maybe Chaplin, that’s about it.’

      ‘Judi Dench?’ I suggest, trying to make a joke of it, but neither of them laughs. Julian has come back in from the street and he seems flustered.

      ‘Look, I’m afraid we’ve got to bugger off.’ He pinches Sofía’s neck in a way that annoys me. ‘Just had a message from our friends. We were supposed to meet them in Santa Ana.’

      Is this an excuse? When Julian arrived he said nothing about meeting anyone for a drink.

      ‘Santa Ana?’ Sofía drains her Diet Coke. ‘Joder. Are you sure?’

      ‘Quite sure.’ Julian brandishes his mobile phone as if producing evidence in a court of law. ‘And we’re late. So we’d better hit the road.’

      There are rapid apologies and farewells–Sofía and I

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