Time of Our Lives

By Jim Gardner

TIME OF OUR LIVES

SYNOPSIS

This book revolves around the life Joe and Helen have made for themselves in the south of Spain and in particular Marbella. Marbella is a town renowned for encouraging folk from all corners of Europe to come on down and spend their hard-earned lucre in a glamorous manner and they do. Aware they could be challenged at any given time and hauled back to the UK Helen and Joe agree to batten down the hatches and lead a normal life. Alas, the best-laid plans often go wrong and on hearing they are both living the vida loca in Spain friends and family descend on them like bees to honey. Not all friends are equal, some have class, others couldn't spell it. Some are parsimonious others generous to a fault. For a multituide of reasons Joe and Helen are obliged to fly back and forth to the UK and in doing so find themselves embroiled in a myrade of compromissing situation. Question remains; will they survive?

Having survived the trauma of acrimonious divorces while traveling the World Joe and Helen chose to settle in the South of Spain. Times are good the economy is booming and money freely available. Come 9/11 however they are forced to sell their apartment and again become embroiled in all things bad.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Gardner
• Release date: Nov 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463208151

Jim Gardner

height5/9; weight 80k; balding i have no children. I have been in business for 20 yrs during which I have owned around six companies at one stage or another. These days I live with my long term partner.I Started to scribble around 15 yrs ago. To date I have written 4 books. 2 of the books have been as a ghost writer and the other 2 are about my ideas, observations and my views

Book preview

Time of our lives

By

James Gardner

Smash words Edition

PUBLISHED BY

James Gardner at Smash words

TIME OF OUR LIVES

Copyright 2019 by James Gardner

Table of Content

RECOMMENDED ACCOMPANYING MUSIC

‘JEFF LYNNE’ ‘TIME OF OUR LIVES’

1Neighbours

2Piano Man

3come fly with me

4Magic Moments

5 John

6Big hole-small box

7 The Christening

8 Gorgeous George

9 Viejo Zorro

10 Cut & Blow

11 Good Idea

12 Sisters

13 Dirt bag/ pleasure dome

14Tennis

15 Vermeer

16 Big Mac’s back in town

17 Round one

18 Road to hell

19 Maximus

20 Dick Dastardly

21 Eugene & Maggie

22 La Presidenta

Chapter 1

Neighbours/ Spain

With the sale of our assets we bought and moved into a quirky duplex apartment in suburbia and by spring time we’d a home fit for the arrival of friends and family. We didn’t have to wait long. Distant acquaintances, long lost friends, old workmates and family, all crawled from the woodwork in search of a freebie and before we knew it we were being inundated by guests.

We remained there blissfully happy for a couple of years and would indeed still be there if someone hadn’t come along and offered us ‘silly money’ for the property.

Aware we had less than a month to find a new home, we scoured the area in search of yet another bargain; but to no avail, until one day, by chance we spotted an ever so small sign on an ever so small window. Out came the binoculars, down went the phone number and within a matter of hours Helen had organised a viewing.

On this occasion the agent was a laid back Norwegian chap by the name of Hilmar. We both found Hilmar extremely affable, nevertheless cordiality not withstanding, we would most assuredly not be offering the €390,000 asking price. Once again, it was time to don ‘the hard hat’ and negotiate.

For the best part of my adult life I’d negotiated with people from all walks of life and on each occasion the fundamentals remained the same. No matter how much I wanted something, if negotiations became protracted I’d walk the walk. In my head ‘No deal’ was better than a ‘bad deal’ and I would not be held to ransom by anyone.

With this uppermost in mind we met Hilmar, who on behalf of his client, opened negotiations. As expected we failed to reach an agreement with regards to the asking price and after 10 or so minutes we called a halt to the reunion. Two days later, at Hilmar’s request, we reconvened and went through the same process and after 5 minutes of bla! bla! bla! I closed my folder while proclaiming that if Hilmar’s client didn’t accept our €345,000 offer within 24 hours we’d walk and we weren’t bluffing.

The following day, with only half-an- hour until deadline, my Norwegian friend phoned to say that although his client wasn’t happy with the offer, he’d reluctantly accept it. For that split second we were in seventh heaven, until reality kicked in and we realised we didn’t frigging have €345,000! Amid the panic, we spoke to a friend of a friend who suggested we give ‘Steve’ a call. Who the hell was Steve, I here you ask, bear with me.

‘Steve the loan shark’ was, as his name suggests, a fixer of loans. He had a body that would put Samson to shame and by way of an addendum he was also as ‘black as a dark night’

Steve didn’t have an office, he had a desk within an office and on first impressions we figured he was perhaps a little bit shady. Nonetheless, we needed a mortgage and as we all know; ‘There’s a time to run and a time to fight’.

Steve was well connected and it was he who set us up with ‘Dee Dee’. Nope it’s not a misprint, ‘Dee Dee’ was her name and if my memory serves me well she was Dutch. She was also abrasive and to the point. Despite her misgivings, she somehow brokered a mortgage for us with a Spanish bank and against all odds, we bought into the mandatory lifestyle we required.

Painting and decorating, buying new furniture and generally giving the place a makeover kept us out of mischief for a while and in no time we’d settled in nicely, apart that is for the extension I’d been planning.

Although the new apartment was huge, the North facing terrace didn’t seem to be serving any purpose. It wasn’t directly or indirectly the recipient of any sunshine at any time of the day, therefore I figured why not fill it in and make it a study. Next move was to find a builder, problem was neither of us spoke Spanish.

Don’t get me wrong, for the limited period we’d been in Spain we’d mastered enough ‘Spanglish’ to get us through the day, however we were both realistic enough to recognise we’d have our work cut out in (a) finding reliable workers and (b) communicating with them. Fortunately via regular visits to the local bar we became acquainted with one or two in the know and one such person was Herman.

Herman was a young Peruvian architect who’d been living on the coast for a considerable time. Although initially reluctant to lend a hand or give advice, after a few beers he relented; enter Alejandro.

Alejandro was around 27 years of age and also Peruvian. He’d only recently arrived in Spain with his wife and young child and was in dire need of work, consequently we invited him to come to the house, assess the project and quote for the job. Of course he and I both realised his first quote, no matter how reasonable, wouldn’t be acceptable, it’s just the way we do things in the building game. One or two builders may occasionally get lucky if they come upon a rookie, however, by and large we haggle, have a beer, haggle some more and then settle on a price. Transpires South American’s are no different.

The following week Alejandro and his band of merry men arrived at our house, got stuck in and against the odds delivered on time. In less that a month they had built what was to become our nirvana leading me to conclude that this young man was one for the future.

Helen and I adored both the urbanisation and the house, even though it became evident we were by far the poor relations. Confirmation of our neighbour’s wealth came quickly via displays of top of the range cars. Mercedes, Rolls Royce, Lexus, B M W and Range Rovers to name but a few, all parked up alongside our dilapidated Jeep. All of this mattered not to us. Despite their wealth we’d still be convivial

There were ten blocks in the urbanisation, each block containing nine apartments. In our block, apart from us, we’d a Kuwait family, a Finnish woman A Spanish woman and her daughter, a Norwegian couple, a couple from Scotland, an English Family, an Irish family and lastly a Welsh couple.

The head of the Saudi family was apparently the chap responsible for the supply and control of all the drinking water in Saudi Arabia. His entourage consisted of him, his wife, their three children, three Philippine cleaners, and two ‘on call 24 /7’ chauffeurs.

The Spanish chauffeurs remit was to attend the needs of the adults, while the Arab chauffeur was responsible for chauffeuring and protecting the kids (all under the age of 12) while they were the beach or in the park etc. The family transportation comprised, a custom built Range Rover, a top of the range Lexus and a 46-foot sun seeker boat berthed in Puerto Banus.

Rich beyond our wildest dreams, they came in force every year and stayed for the months of July, August and September. As far as we were aware Saudi’s the world over had a reputation for being dour and introverted, not these Saudi’s. Troupes of flamenco dancers, catering companies, snake charmers etc. all regularly performed in their apartments and having done so, left the way they arrived. Forget the naive notion that the Saudi’s abstain from consuming alcohol, they don’t. Believe me this mob could drink Gaza under the table.

Occasionally they overstepped the mark and the noise became almost unbearable, however we refused to make waves, adopting the view that they were on holiday and thus entitled to party.

By way of a peace offering, they invited us, along with one or two of our other neighbours to join them for dinner. Needless to say, I wasn’t remotely interested in socialising with them, Helen on the other hand did, which in effect meant we were going!

At a pre- arranged time the chauffeur knocked on our door and informed us our carriage was ready, and with this we set off in a limo, destination an extremely posh restaurant on the outskirts of town. Within minutes of arriving, we were introduced to, amongst others, the Saudi Arabian ambassador to Japan, a high-ranking French banking official, a Spanish doctor and a Lebanese executive.

The seating had already been pre- determined. Khalid sat next to the Ambassador to Japan, Helen was between the doctor and the businessman, while I was placed next to Khalid’s wife, Rena. As for the rest, they seemed to have been left to their own devices

I’d like to report some interesting facts and scandal with regards to ‘who said what and to whom;’ truth of the matter is, there’s nothing to report. The proceeding conversation was immensely mundane. Indeed such was the monotony of the gathering I figured recent conversations with my 7 year old granddaughter were way more interesting..

In these days of political awareness it seems everyone’s afraid to say anything that may offend and this little get together proved no different. Small talk being the order of the day apart for the fact that Khalid was, by Saudi standards, relatively rich, we learned nothing of the culture or race, except that they doggedly supported Palestine and the Palestinians and surprise! Surprise! Vehemently despised those of Jewish persuasion!

The singular snippet of gossip came via Rena who revealed that for all of their money they too had their problems. Khalid had health issues. For the last 5 years he’d travelled the world and met with countless specialists in his quest for longevity and in the final analysis been left with half a lung. Clearly Khalid was living on borrowed time and even a king’s ransom couldn’t save him.

The Spanish widow turned out to be a little more interesting. To look at her you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, the truth is the woman had been married to one of the coasts major drug dealers.

Husband Evarts had been diagnosed with having terminal cancer and as such, remained bedridden for months and I swear to god if I hadn’t known he was a drug dealer I’d have figured he was either a lawyer or an architect, certainly not a gangster.

According to my sources i.e. the security men of the urbanisation, Evarts had been living in fear of his own and his family’s lives long before developing the cancer. Indeed, such had been his concern for the safety of his wife and child that a sophisticated security system had been installed ‘in and around’ the urbanisation, courtesy of him! Six months after we met, Evarts died leaving ‘Mary Poppins’ alone to pick up the pieces.

Next, we had Piaf, a retired housewife from Finland. All I can say about Piaf is that she had loads of money, drove a top of the range Volvo and went through boyfriends the way some people go through fish and chips. For all her affluence, the one thing she did not enjoy was good health, the unfortunate woman suffered from a rare disease associated with muscle degeneration. Apart from her illness we both reckoned she was in good nick for a 70 year old, that is until we discovered, quite by chance that she was only 58!

We knew little of the Scandinavian neighbours other than they were a couple of odd balls. As for the remaining neighbours, they’d only recently moved in and as of yet we’d nothing to report.

Surrounded by people of every colour and creed, we felt as if we were living in the League of Nations, which in turn got me to thinking that this sort of thing could only happen in Marbella. Such diversity was unheard of in Scotland.

Although we kept pretty much to ourselves, we did, as I say become friendly with the security men. They were the eyes and ears of the community and it was they, albeit unknowingly, who indirectly introduced us to Norman.

We already understood most of what was going on in the urbanisation, including who was and who wasn’t a permanent resident; in Norman’s case, he was a permanent.

Norman Vermeer was a white, upper class, South African entrepreneur. He’d moved into the urbanisation four months prior to us and to all intents and purposes seemed a decent enough individual.

One day in passing, I noticed a rubbish skip being delivered outside his apartment and so I logically assumed he was carrying our reformation work.

Given I’d been in the building trade for a number of years I, quite logically, wondered what he was up to, so I waited a couple of days, knocked on his door and introduced myself.

To be fair on opening the door he welcomed me like a long lost brother, invited me inside and handed me a glass of wine. After which he proceeded to show me round the house. My first observation was of a frightfully posh individual aged around 40yrs.

Tour over, we spoke for a short time, until interrupted by the arrival of Helen. He similarly embraced her as if she were his long lost sister, before offering her a glass of wine, Helen duly accepted. Clearly, the bloke had been living alone for so long he was desperate for company.

With regards to the renovation, it would appear he’d paid some English guys peanuts to carry out major reformation work on his house and as everyone knows if you ‘pay peanuts you end up with monkeys’! Regrettably, he committed the cardinal sin by befriending the workforce which, as any supervisor will tell you, is a no, no. Brickies, plumbers and electricians the world over mistake kindness for stupidity and this crew were no different.

There’s an old expression in the construction game, which is, and I quote ‘you’re either a c--t or a silly c--t’ unfortunately no one had mentioned this to Norman. He was a pussy-cat with regards to his dealings with the workers, as a result, they saw him as a soft touch and left him to clear up their fairly long list of ‘snaggings’.

Born and raised in Durban, Norman was the son of a highly acclaimed scientist, who apart from many other achievements was the man responsible for calculating the precise angle at which a returning spaceship must enter the earth’s atmosphere in order to avoid annihilation.

Norman himself was no village idiot. Educated in a highly prestigious private school, he showed all the tell tale signs of having been raised in Colonial times. He often spoke of his school days and of wearing a straw boater, playing cricket, sipping afternoon tea and being caned! I’m sure you get the picture.

According to him, he had never washed a dish, nor made a bed in his entire life, that my dear boy was a job for niggers.

He’d been friendly with a white South African girl for over 19 years, during which time she’d married, then divorced his best friend. They kept in touch over the years and when he found out she was as free as a bird, he invited her to spend Christmas with him in Spain. She duly arrived and for the duration of her stay they enjoy one another’s company, which I guess is just a polite way of saying they were at it like rabbits.

Fortnight over, she returned to South Africa, while he returned to drinking himself into oblivion. One month later, he called Nancy in Johannesburg and proposed marriage and lo and behold, she accepted. He figured that having known her for all of 19 years, it would be a marriage made in heaven; he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Nancy was also South African and also from a privileged background. Many years ago, her Grandparents had been involved in the diamond industry. At one time, they owned a huge chunk of the Kruger National Park, therefore not unnaturally, by the time Nancy had reached 21 she’d never worked a day in her life, not that indolence was ever going to be an obstacle.

With a little help from people in high places, she was offered a job in nursing and within a month was promoted to the post of state nurse. Of course, Nancy was no more a nurse than I am a brain surgeon and pretty soon, she messed up, big time.

During her first week, she administered the wrong drugs to two separate patients, both of whom died within days of one another. These dreadful acts of negligence were of course tantamount to manslaughter and in truth she should have been prosecuted, however as we all know there are ‘rules for those and such as those’ especially in South Africa.

I guess she figured Normans proposal of marriage was a slightly better deal than a stretch in jail, consequently she sold every last item she possessed, married Norman in Durban, then made a sharp exit; destination Spain.

According to Norman she’d demanded and received the very best wedding money could buy, including and I quote ‘a silk wedding dress so expensive you’d think it had been made from the ‘Shroud of Turin’!

Apart from the pomp and ceremony that goes towards a wedding, the brazen hussy had the audacity to invite her ex-husband and an old flame, both of whom had the impudence to turn up; now aint that a kick in the head?

Once they’d settled down, Norman insisted we meet his new bride and so as arranged, we convened in the local tapas bar.

Our initial impression of Nancy was of a very posh, wacky sort of girl, and to be honest we both liked her. She was certainly big alas she was also aesthetically challenged, nonetheless Norman thought the sun shone from her backside and that’s all that mattered.

Within weeks of being married, the cracks began to appear and it became transparently obvious these two were as different as chalk and cheese. He was a cleanliness freak; she was messy. He detested smoking; she puffed like a steam train. He enjoyed staying home and cooking; she enjoyed the night life. They’d only two things in common (a) they could bevy like there was no tomorrow and (b) both snorted cocaine.

One evening, over a cold beer Norman, Nancy, Helen and I began discussing the merits and the shortcomings of cosmetic surgery i.e. face-lifts, tummy tucks and breast enhancements etc. My view on the subject was quite clear, if you’re going to have plastic surgery then at least get it done properly. Surely, the secret of having false breasts etc. is to make people think they are authentic. Apparently not!

The evening was in full swing, drink was flowing and tongues loosening, when from out of the blue Nancy stood up, turned towards me and boldly announced, and I quote ‘I’ve had my tits done and they look absolutely gorgeous would you like to see them?’ Of course given my beloved was sitting next to me I had to, albeit reluctantly, refuse this magnanimous offer. Clearly, it was time to hit the road.

We didn’t see them for a couple of days; however Norman revealed that they’d been fighting over (a) the increase in feral cats in the community and (b) smoking in the house. The honeymoon period looked to be well and truly over, especially when, against Normans wishes Nancy took to flagrantly feeding the cats and brazenly smoking in the bedroom. Soon the house was literally ‘littered’ with wild kittens pissing and shiting indiscriminately, at which point the true love they’d spoke of recently, turned to vitriolic hate; clearly something had to give.

Since arriving from South Africa, Norman had made acquaintances with one or two neighbours from his apartment block and one such couple was Martin and Montse.

Martin was a70 year old Moroccan who previous to retiring worked as the private Architect of the infamous gunrunning millionaire Kashoggi. He owned two beautiful apartments in our urbanisation, ran two cars and had obviously made a few quid in his day.

During his time employed by Kashoggi, Martin met, then married a Spanish woman 20 years his junior; enter Montse

Montse can best be described as having a face like a burst couch, the personality of a statue and a figure the shape of a lollipop. Clearly the good lord had a hangover the day he made ‘bad Karma!’ as she was to become known.

As a result of this union, Martin and Montse produced a daughter whom they named Victoria. Victoria like her Mother hadn’t been blessed in the aesthetics department, indeed, without meaning to be unkind, the poor girl had a nose that could peck trees.

In terms of attitude and demeanour Montse was more of a man than her husband. Back then she was also the president of the urbanisation. However history will confirm that sooner rather than later she would fall from grace with almighty proportions.

Yet another of Norman’s weird and wonderful neighbours was Donald and Susanna. Under 5 ft tall and coyote ugly, Donald’s redeeming feature, like many living on the coast was he just happened to be minted, and let me tell you when you’re rich, the rest is academic.

He’d accumulated his money by working for a huge real estate corporation, his brief was to locate and develop 1800 suitable supermarket sites, which to be fair he did with astonishing success. The outcome of this achievement brought him immense wealth, thus enabling him to snare someone of Susanna’s calibre.

Of course to every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. In Donald’s case, he’d developed testicular cancer; consequently he had difficulty ‘getting it up’ so to speak. Susanna wasn’t overly concerned; this 60-year-old vamp was only in it for the money and certainly was not averse to playing the field.

Prior to the arrival of Nancy, Susanna often popped down downstairs to fraternise with Norman, when her old man went sailing. Her mission being to seduce him, which to be honest was hardly mission impossible.

Norman maintained they were just friends, however given ‘a standing penis has no conscience’, I’m not so sure. Martin, Montse, Donald and Susanna had all befriended Norman in one form or another and given we’d become friendly with him, we were invited to the occasional dinner party and boy were they eye openers?

The one occasion that