‘Til Barcelona Do Us Part

1 Matteo

I think I was a Barcelonan in a previous life. What else could explain such an instant connection? OK, so we’ve only just arrived at the hotel, but I adore everything we’ve seen so far.

As soon as we entered the city, I could feel the vibe of this Mediterranean capital. As we rode along in the taxi, the bright sun was setting behind the buildings, but I could still see the summer colours. I asked the taxi driver if he could take a detour to the sea on the way to the hotel, but he just mumbled something under his breath as he turned into the next street. For a while, it seemed like he had listened to me, and I even rolled down the window to lean out, excited to glimpse the ocean. But half an hour later, he parked in front of the hotel Charmé Barcelona. No sea. Perhaps he hadn’t understood me.

Still, I had a full preview of what the city had to offer. We travelled past streets bursting with people, beautiful squares, fountains, restaurants and shops. So many shops! This is the land of Zara, after all. And let me tell you, I spotted at least four enormous Zara shops, even on such a short trip. All of them open. I’ve read that shops close really late here.

Barcelona has something special to it. I can just feel it. Too bad Erik was distracted by his phone for the whole ride—probably having a last look at his work emails. I made him promise that, after we arrived at the hotel, he wouldn’t check his work emails or messages again for the rest of the holiday. I need to make sure he enjoys his time off properly, without interruptions.

We live together, but with work and everything, Erik has been out of London for weeks, so this will be the first time we’ve spent so much time together. I’m a little nervous about that. I can be a bit intense sometimes, and in the past, other guys have had trouble handling my passion. Erik, on the other hand, is the drama-free type, something I’m working on adapting to as best as I can—I try to be patient and not overwhelm him with my feelings.

The hotel room is quite fancy. I look around, taking it all in. In the background, I hear the sound of water falling down against Erik’s body. Naked. Soap running down his chiselled pecs. Oh, yes! He looks like a Hollywood star straight from the action movies—the ones with lots of romance, that is. I’ve even been working out more over the last few months, trying to match my handsome boyfriend.

I’ve come such a long way to be able to call him that. In fact, it almost feels like we’re on our honeymoon. I play with the thought—honeymoon.

Two weeks in Southern Europe: starting with Barcelona, then Milan (fashion capital of the world), Paris (the city of love!) and finally back to London. I can’t wait for Milan. I’ve been once before, but back then I was young and didn’t have money to buy clothes or anything cool. So it barely counts as a visit!

Surprisingly, I’ve never been to Paris before. I guess I was saving that visit for someone really special, like Erik.

It’s going to be amazing. We just need to align on our plans for each city, starting tonight.

As soon as we reached our room, I just wanted to put our suitcases down and go walking through the city streets, soaking in the Barcelona coolness. But Erik grabbed my hand and said, “Come shower with me!” waggling his eyebrows at me playfully. It took all my strength to resist, but I knew what that implied. Hot sex, yes, but also not getting out of the room until tomorrow.

It’s my first time being with someone who enjoys sex with me this much and I’m loving it. Connor pops into my mind—my last ex-boyfriend—and all I can think about is how I had to beg for intimacy with him, which was sad, and very hard for my self-esteem.

Connor was a mistake, not the best shining example of my past. I used to think he was just too tired from work at the end of the day. That’s why I felt like the biggest fool in the world when I learnt he had slept with half of London’s gay population. But that’s in the past. There’s no use dwelling on crappy ex-boyfriends like Connor, especially now I’m with someone like Erik, who is just as excited as I am whenever we get into the bedroom.

At the beginning, I even worried our relationship could be based solely on sex, but we really are soulmates, and this trip will be perfect to strengthen our connection; to bond on an even deeper level. And tonight, we can still make love when we come back from a quick walk, like normal couples do.

In fact, I’ve prepped for this trip extensively, even learning a few new sex moves from one of those books you find at the back of the bookstore.

But first I need to explore the connection I feel with this city. I definitely spent one of my previous lives here.

Erik just couldn’t wait to take a shower and wash off the grime from the plane, though. Cleaning is one of his quirks. I don’t mind some dirt, as long as things are tidy. Like seeing sweaty Erik after the gym—that’s super sexy—but having his sport clothes thrown all over the place is just too much for my nerves. On the contrary, Erik is obsessed with germs and can’t stand the smallest bit of dust. I’m sure he got it from his very strict mother, who still scares me when we meet her for brunch. And, honestly, I got off the same plane as Erik and didn’t think it was dirty at all.

I sit on the bed and flip through the channels on the big, flat TV, but I already know nothing’s going to hold my interest. Although it’s already late, we still have time to take a walk holding hands and enjoy dinner outside.

I need some Barcelona fun!

The suitcases are lined up at the end of the room, and the clothes are hanging in the wardrobe. I’m not bragging, but I have the best packing system. Everything is segmented in bags inside of bags, inside of other bags, which makes unpacking very easy. In fact, I was done within minutes.

The room is spacious and stylishly decorated, with a modern, geometric chandelier reminiscent of the Brussels Atomium (as Erik pointed out), and a lovely balcony, perfect for people-watching. I take a look at the dreamy and vibrant streets of the centre of Barcelona and sigh in anticipation.

Erik had better hurry up.

I hastily change channels again and land on a kind of Iberian Real Housewives reunion. That’s interesting. I can’t understand a word, but I’m a makeup artist and hairdresser, so at least I can enjoy their style and beauty. The group of women are yelling at each other, but they don’t look angry. In fact, they occasionally stop shouting to laugh at their own jokes.

They remind me of the “lovely” co-passengers in our flight. Let me tell you, it’s not only Spanish people who talk loudly.

It was a relief to be off the aeroplane. We had business class tickets, but a hen party next to us started drinking as soon as the stay-in-your-seat cabin lights went off. I felt sorry for the only male flight attendant, who took the brunt of the harassment from the drunken girls. Although, when I saw him checking out my Erik, some of my sympathy disappeared. Not sure how much clearer I could have been. I mean, I was holding Erik’s hand throughout the flight while he was sleeping, just to make it clear that there was no chance.

By the time the plane landed, the hens were wasted—all of them. This kind of people give us Brit tourists a bad reputation. Thank God for my Italian heritage.

Those gals were embarrassing. My hen party would be much classier.

My watch tells me that Erik has been in the shower for 20 minutes already. I know him, and he’s taking extra time because he wants to stay here tonight.

No way.

I’m about to knock and ask him to hurry up, when I hear a voice at the door: “Room service!”

Uh? I haven’t ordered anything. Or maybe it’s one of those bandits that rob tourists’ hotel rooms!

I shake my head. This is a safe country. It should be fine. No guerrillas or drug cartels here, surely.

I open the door only a crack, and indeed, there’s a young guy in front of me. He’s wearing black chinos, a white shirt and a pale blue tie. Kudos to the management for choosing such a cute outfit.

The guy smiles and blushes as he asks, “Mr Lexington?” This is a very gay-friendly hotel that I selected, but does he have to check me out so blatantly?

“I am.” I mean, I’m not Mr Lexington; Erik is, but maybe I’ll be someday? It sounds fitting: Matteo Lexington.

“Your champagne, sir.” He shows me the trolley, lined with white lace. There’s an ice bucket with a bottle on it, covered with a blue tablecloth.

“Oh, we haven’t asked for anything …” I stutter. I can’t believe I’m turning champagne down, but I don’t want it to appear on our room bill.

The waiter looks at me with confused eyes. “I was told to bring this to your room, Mr Lexington,” he says, his face turning redder by the second.

I almost feel sad for him. He looks so disappointed. Maybe this is his first day working at the hotel? And he’s offering me champagne.

He gives a shy shrug. “You asked for it as the welcome package, Mr Lexington.”

That would have been Erik. How thoughtful! He knows I love champagne and everything sparkling.

“Sure, sure. Sorry, I just got to the hotel and am a bit tired. Please, come in.” I open the door and he steps in, breathing a sigh of relief.

The waiter places the bucket on a small table in the centre of the room and uncovers the bottle, removing the tablecloth with a dramatic flourish. “Louis Roederer Cristal Millesime Brut! As you asked.” He says the name of the champagne with an impressive French accent. We’re not far from France, so he’s probably bilingual. Chic.

“My favourite!” I lie. Never heard of it, but Erik knows a lot about expensive drinks. He’s also the manager of Paulina, the British-Latin pop star and gay icon, who does have expensive taste.

“Should I open it?” the waiter asks.

“Not yet. My boyfriend’s still in the shower. But thanks.” Ugh. Should I have said “husband”? To continue the Mr Lexington charade, I mean.

The guy stays there smiling. What? He wants a glass of it?

Oh, he wants a tip.

“Please, hold on,” I say, in my best I’m-used-to-this-kind-of-VIP-treatment voice. I grab my wallet off the TV stand, then remember I don’t have any euros. Erik told me it would be better to exchange the pounds here in Spain, because it would be cheaper.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath.

I put my wallet back down, wondering what to do. Then I spot Erik’s wallet on the table by the window. I bet Erik has some euros. He’s always very organised and well prepared. I open his wallet, but there are only British banknotes inside. I take out £10 and give it to the guy.

“Here you are,” I say with a smile.

The guy looks at the banknote and, for a second, I think he’s going to refuse it. I mean, a tenner. I’m being more than generous. Surely, he’ll win with the exchange. He glances between the banknote and me once more, then says, “Thank you.”

Finally. He turns and hurries down the hall.

I look at the super-expensive looking champagne bottle. Erik is such a sweetie. But what is he doing in there? I’m ready to do anything to get him out of the shower. Maybe I should yell, “Fire!”—although that would be a bit extreme.

Or maybe I should uncork the bottle. But he wouldn’t like that, either. Erik likes to be the big man not only in our relationship, but everywhere. I know he would enjoy the moment of opening the bottle, feeling like a champion, champagne foam splashing expensively all over him.

I’m still holding his wallet in my hand, feeling its smooth surface under my fingers. It’s a beautiful, black leather Montblanc design, and a gift from me specifically for this trip. Although Erik is in show business, he’d carried the same old wallet for years. I knew it had a sentimental value for him, but the coins were leaking through a hole, for heaven’s sake, so it had to go. Erik is lucky he has me to check on his fashion.

I cross the room and put the wallet back where I found it. OK, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help taking an innocent, quick look inside. Erik has so many cards and some of them have his handsome face on them. Blond, deep blue intense eyes, with this confidence in his look, full of determination.

A small receipt that sticks out calls my attention. It wasn’t there the last time I checked. It’s from Morris & Gunthorpe, the super-luxury jewellers in Mayfair. Some of my clients visit it. But what was Erik doing there?

Then it strikes me. I’m tired from the trip, but not that tired.

Oh my God … is it? Did he …? Oh my God. Could it be …? I drop the receipt, and my hand covers my mouth.

That’s impossible. OK, so I must say I’ve been leaving Erik friendly little hints here and there to remind him subliminally what my goal is in this relationship. You know—a magazine open at a double page spread featuring the last celebrity gay wedding, that kind of thing. But I wasn’t expecting this. And then there’s the champagne. That’s what this expensive bottle is for?

My mind’s in turmoil. With trembling fingers, I pick up the piece of paper to look at it more closely. It’s an old-school receipt, filled out by hand, in writing that I can’t read. What does it say? I can only read “gold”. But is it “gold” or “good”? Gosh, this is so frustrating. I should give them a phone call and ask, pretending to be Erik … but that would spoil the surprise.

Then a sudden thought comes to my mind. What if it’s not a gift for me? Maybe he bought something for his mother. She’s a classy, rich lady who would appreciate a jewel from Morris & Gunthorpe.

Her birthday is in six months’ time, though. She’s a Sagittarius. Besides, Erik would have consulted me about such a purchase.

There’s just one kind of jewel he wouldn’t ask me for an opinion on. It has to be an engagement ring.