Geoff Squared

The sky had sprung a leak. It had looked like the underside of a lead water tank for over an hour and now the rain was falling in cataracts. Each drop bounced six inches on hitting the pavement in front of the Café de la Cruz. Geoff's eye was drawn to the passing feet. Flip-flops on the tourists, wellingtons on the expats. No Andalucians outside in this weather. They would all be huddled inside, deciding that they didn't need to buy garlic today, or that the Doctor's appointment wasn't as important as all that, after all. The café itself had its share of local custom, trapped inside by the deluge; builders disinclined to climb ladders and scaffolding until a drier day came along; bank clerks assuming people would not be updating their bank books today and gestors (those mysterious middlemen, what did they do?) who would spend their days in cafés like this one anyway, whatever the weather.

Geoff guessed she wouldn't be coming. You'd have to be the most cock-eyed of optimists to brave the weather for this sort of thing. He spilled some of his beer at the thought of that: no-one had ever called him one of those that's for sure. He'd come though, hadn't he? She was coming from inland. Alora, it would be only fair to wait at least an hour. Some of those country roads were a challenge in the wet. Mobile coverage wouldn't be good until she got closer to the coast and, anyway, most likely the lightning had taken out a mast or two. It usually did.

She walked in. Not exactly like the photo on the site, but then neither was he. In fact, she looked much better, those Hollywood tricks with the gauze and Vaseline on professional head-shots were pointless in his view. You could tell they’d been used, that’s all. Sometimes people were scarcely recognisable in person. He wished he’d put a more recent photo of himself on, now. Geoff stood,

‘Elaine?’

Anyone would have been crushed by the reaction. The widened eyes, followed by the tightened mouth and the forced smile which struggled to reach the corners of her mouth, never mind those eyes. Geoff pulled on a grin and held out a hand.

‘I’m Geoff, ah… you made good time.’

‘Not much traffic. Bit of a delay round Cartama, a yellow peril in the ditch at the side of the road.’

‘A Fiat with a go-faster stripe, was it?’

‘Aren’t they always?’

‘Did he walk away?’

‘Not this time.’

Geoff asked her if she wanted a drink. He ordered her a café corto and got himself a brandy. He tried to ignore her raised eyebrow. Something in the bar caught her eye; the silence became awkward, but he didn’t know how to break it.

She did, she stood up and shook his hand, and smiled. Really, this time.

‘Sorry, you’re the wrong Geoff.’ She pointed over his shoulder at a guy of about 30 in a Spanish-cut suit and a guiri haircut. ‘That’s mine, over there.’