Page 23 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“It’s complicated,” I shout back over my shoulder. Well, it’s true. Not that I’m about to divulge to either of my friends that I already know quite a lot about the man who held the plane up to prevent me from facing the authorities.
Radhika is a dog with a bone. She tears across the car park at me as I try to keep up with Kelly, and we collectively stride towards the car rental office. In typical style, Kelly hadn’t checked the small print of the paperwork properly before leaving Bristol, and it appears we have two minutes to pick up our car before the office closes for the day. Kelly will insist on booking with cheap and cheerful companies.
“But this can’t be right. I opted for the eco-friendly, low emission Citroen C3.” Kelly is already propping up the desk and wailing as the hire car desk’s operator checks through her documents and hands over the keys. It makes for a welcome distraction from Radhika’s constant interrogation, and I couldn’t be gladder.
“And the last client opted for a convertible Mercedes but ended up with a Fiesta. It’s coming up to high season, love, and we reserve the right to make substitutions as and when necessary,” the Irish-accented employee replies.
At least we have a car to drive us far, far away from all the fun and games of aircrafts, airport– and airborne passports.
Kelly sighs and shepherds us into the car park, so we can clamber into our behemoth and sporty convertible Alfa Romeo Stelvio Quadrifoglio.
Hey, maybe things are about to look up.
I allow Radhika to take on the role of co-pilot in the front, where she continues to debate my baffling behaviour with Kelly, reclining herself as far as the mechanism will allow and massaging her hands all over the pristine leather seats. My eyes are quite happy to grow heavy, a catnap easing me into its clutches halfway through the journey to the farm stay, but the glimpses of countryside I do catch as we turn off the main road and head inland for the hills are of little picturesque houses and occasional villas scattered across the green rolling scenery. Not to be outshone, farms and rustic cafés put in an appearance here and there, and the hot pink bougainvillea is a glorious assault to the senses. Rows of cork trees, some already stripped of their flaky outer layers, stand like obedient soldiers guarding the road. That makes sense, the area is well-known for its cork exports. Hopefully it won’t jog Kelly’s memory back onto the subject of hiking in the heat, though. I’m not up for any of that.
The quinta’s owner, Luisa, emerges from the stone building to greet us as we pull into the rough and tumble car park at the exact moment dusk seems to fall. I smooth down my own rough and tumble hair after thatal frescodrive without a car roof, and Luisa presses keys, maps and leaflets into our hands– this being an eco-resort, presumably the latter are recycled.
Kelly and I share a room. Radhika opts to have her own space (aka no interruptions to potential bedtime action). Although we are all famished, we are too exhausted to contemplate the trek up the hill to the nearest restaurant. Luisa has thoughtfully left us with a welcome pack of freshly baked bread, a selection of Portuguese cheeses, sardine pate, nuts, dried fruit, water, milk, coffee… and most importantly, wine. We are sorted.
***
The sound ofa cockerel wakes me earlier than I’d planned. I stretch my limbs, pasting half a smile on my face anyway, in the realisation I’m finally on holiday. I look to the side to see Kelly is still dozing in her bed, and just for a blissful moment it’s like the flight never happened: we really did click our fingers and teleport ourselves to this haven in the sun. Except I have a sore head from too many glasses of red, and now the ticker tape in my head presses replay and the antics of yesterday return to haunt me.
As if she senses my thoughts, now stuck on Tiago’s thoroughly squeezable derriere, Kelly stirs.
“Why did you have to let me drink so much last night?” I grumble.
“It was organic wine, Willow.”
“That doesn’t make it OK,” I laugh, immediately regretting it and putting a hand to my forehead to quell the throbbing pain. “I think you’ll find the alcoholic content of wine is the same no matter what kind of grape it’s come from. I need coffee,” I wail. “And I could murder apastel de nata, obvs.”
“You’ve come to the right place for that.” Kelly sits up in bed excitedly, far too animated for this hour, rubbing her hands together. “I can’t wait to carpe diem everything. Come on! Do you want to shower first or shall I?”
Breakfast is legendary and so is our timing: a flurry of excitedly chattering guests leaves just as we arrive so that we get the whole room to ourselves. Much as I always encourage each and every female on the planet to throw out the calorie intake ‘rule book’ that’s been thrust upon us since birth, I know we are inevitably going to go home a few unwanted kilos heavier between us. But it’s worth it. Bowls of mouthwatering morsels have been set out before us and I genuinely don’t know which way to look or where to start. Juicy honeydew melon, Madeiran cheese, farmhouse yoghurt, more dried fruit and nuts, warm bread rolls, honey, butter, and homemade lemon cake vie for my attention. But for all the bounty, there’s not a trace of the custard tart that my belly and heart pine for. I can’t settle. Soon I’ll have been in Portugal for twenty-four hours and still I won’t have sampled one! That sounds ridiculous. Such a first world problem. Especially when I bake the things day in, day out. But I have to know how far I’ve truly come with my own pastries. I’ve been looking forward to this taste test milestone. I need to try an authentic tart here in the Algarve asap, to know I am on the right track. And, far more to the point, that Tiago is on the wrong one.
“So what excitement do we have on the agenda today? No, no, don’t tell me.” A thoroughly grumpy Radhika lifts a hand to stop Kelly churning out her plans for us all. “Mucking out the pigs, collecting hens eggs, and a dip in the stream.”
We arrived late last night and nobody has yet seen any evidence of the alleged ‘luxury pool,’ so perhaps Radhika is right and a country stream is the best we could hope for to cool off.
“You won’t find any pigs here,” says the teenage waitress with the nineties undercut beneath her mousey-brown ponytail, who has appeared from nowhere to refill our coffee. Never mind swine, Radhika looks sheepish. “But you can help with the eggs if you want: you’ll be saving me a job. As for the pool, I can confirm it does exist, and it is pretty sumptuous, despite its size. I should know. Its construction ate into my uni budget and meant I had to hang around here for a year out… and counting.”
Wow, this is quite a bolt out of the blue.
“Oh, my goodness. We are so sorry for our friend’s rude outburst,” says Kelly, who is probably beginning to regret bringing either of her friends with her.
“And for your… erm, your predicament,” I find myself adding, eyes wide, “although hopefully you’ll get back to your studies soon.”
Radhika looks on, cheeks candy-pink, hand that was going in for the lemon cake hovering mid-air.
“You speak amazing English, may I say,” Kelly takes back the reins of this unexpected conversation, and Radhika and I both breathe a sigh of relief.
“Dad’s from Liverpool, and Mum– Luisa, who did the meet and greet last night– is a local. São Brás born and bred. And Manchester will always be there.” The teen shrugs. “That’s where I’m headed next year for my chemistry degree. I’m Leona, by the way.”
“Wonderful to meet you, Leona. I’m Kelly, this is Radhika, and to my left we have Willow,” Kelly fills her in.
“Right. Hi,” Leona considers each of us in turn as if committing names to faces. “Anything else you want to know before I head down to the coast for my other job today?”
“Ooh, what’s your other job?” At the sound of the word coast, Radhika’s curiosity is piqued.
