The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society Read Free Page B

shot past the top-hatted flunky, spun through the revolving door, and hurtled across the vestibule . There, arrayed before me like a wedding line, exquisitely groomed and composed and shining with expensive unguents, were my Bostonians. I stopped in mid-flight, raised my seething hands and opened my mouth, but the right words eluded me. With a strangled croak, I continued my headlong dash to the cloakroom.
    Once inside I tried to calm myself down by focusing on the task at hand. The first thing was to try and scrub myself down, then make some attempt to dry shirtsleeves that were actually dripping. And finally, I needed to psych myself into the infinitely knowledgeable, professorial persona of Michael Jacobs.
    I managed the scrubbing part, at least, and emerged from the cloakroom more or less devoid of insect life. I smiled at the assembled Bostonians, who had turned towards me with a look of surprised but good-natured enquiry. I decided not to offer an explanation of my unorthodox entrance and sopping cuffs. ‘And you must be…?’ – the tall lady at the front of the group asked with a slight tilt of her well-coiffured head.
    ‘Erm, I’m, erm…’ I had rehearsed this part of the proceedings hundreds of times but instead of answering I just stood there mouthing silently like a dying cod. It was the sight of a tall, curly-haired, bespectacled man striding towards me across the lobby that had provoked this apparent identity crisis. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Michael Jacobs.

    ‘Ah – Chris,’ Michael shouted across the remaining expanse of carpet. ‘This is Chris Stewart, everyone!’ he announced. ‘That’s w-wonderful, you’ve come early. Chris is leading the group this afternoon and I’m going to join you all at dinner at the Torre del Oro – sumptuous fare.’ There were pleasant smiles of approbation all round. ‘Just one word, Chris.’ And he neatly spun me to one side just out of view.
    I felt my body sag with relief. ‘You haven’t introduced yourself to anyone yet, have you?’ Michael whispered. ‘Thank God for that! Jeremy threw an absolute f-fit when I told him our plan, but he’s squared it with everyone now, and the great news is that you can guide them around as yourself. They’ve all been most w-wonderfully sympathetic,and curious – I’ve been handing out that book of your’s to them.’
    ‘You mean I do the tour of the Giralda and Museo de Bellas Artes as me?’ I asked, amazed that they’d actually want such a dilettante at the helm.
    ‘Er… no. Jeremy managed a change of schedule. You’re taking them to the carriage museum. You can do carts and horses, can’t you?’ he asked, suddenly anxious again. I could – but perverse as this might sound, I was rather deflated by the idea.
    We rejoined the reception. It seemed as if there were Bostonians everywhere: a murmur of cultured American tones filled the room along with the rustle of expensive clothes and the clink of ice in glasses. Throughout that day, the Bostonians were continuing to gather; private jets touched down at Seville’s airport; long limousines sped into the city. 

    A luxury bus, the size of a smallish aeroplane, pulled up at twelve to herd us all to the carriage museum. I don’t think I’d ever been in such a plush, well-upholstered vehicle before, or one with such ferocious air-conditioning. Cardigans, if not fleeces, were essential rig for travelling round Seville on that summer’s day.
    Jeremy joined the group just before we set off. He waited a respectful step or two to one side before springing up, checking surreptitiously that no one had been kidnapped on the walk from the kerb, and sat beside me. A suntanned man with impeccable white hair, he wore a dark blazer, quiet silk tie and smiled with great ease. But you could tell he was nervous.
     ‘Things have to be got right,’ he muttered to me as the bus moved gently into the flow of traffic. ‘Just one call to a lawyer and we’d be done