More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions Of A Tenerife Barman - Plot & Excerpts
Long brown hair framed a model’s face, high cheekbones etched below sparkling emerald eyes. She was dressed in a microscopic yellow bikini, the perfect showcase for a taut stomach and brimming cleavage. Joy and I were dozing on recliner chairs in the shade of the overhanging balcony. We had woken in the middle of the night to a commotion from next door. The apartment had remained unoccupied since we arrived, but the banging and clomping of high heels on marble signalled we had a new neighbour. ‘A little. Depends what you need to know,’ I asked, rising to shake our neighbour’s hand. ‘I’m Joe… and this is Joy.’ ‘Hi, I’m Charley. I just got here last night. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’ ‘No, no, we never heard you come in,’ I lied. ‘You here by yourself?’ ‘At the moment. My sister’s coming out next week.’ Charley beckoned us both into the house. ‘Would you like a drink? Beer? Wine? Juice?’ She held the fridge door open, waiting for an answer. Every shelf was full, mainly with booze.
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