by Zoe May
‘You’re beautiful,’ Will says matter-of-factly.
I let my eyes roam over his body too, taking in his tall sturdy frame. For once, unlike the times I’ve seen him whip off a T-shirt in the hotel room over the past few days, I don’t politely look away. I let myself drink him in and it’s liberating. His body is board, strong and masculine, without being overly ripped or muscular. His chest is covered in a light dusting of hair that traces down his stomach towards his pubic area. I try not to look directly at his penis – that would just be too pervy – but it’s hard to miss it. I don’t know if it’s just the steam in the room or what, but I start to feel hot and lightheaded. I look away, gazing back up towards the ceiling, as I feel the steam condensing on my skin and dripping down onto the bench. The room is so warm, dark and wet, that it feels almost like a cave.
‘This dungeon’s growing on me,’ I comment.
Will laughs. ‘Yeah, I quite like it too. It’s like we’re in a crater in the middle of the earth’s crust or something.’
‘Same,’ I reply. ‘It feels so surreal, so cut off from everything.’
‘It does. It feels like a different world. Our own little cave, all the way in Africa, just you and me,’ Will says, his voice dreamy and wistful.
‘Just you and me,’ I echo, feeling a million miles away, while simultaneously finding myself completely at home.
Chapter 18
I don’t know if it was our heart-to-heart or our spa day or what, but Will are getting along better than ever. Perhaps the full body scrub and long luxurious massages relaxed us, or maybe it’s the effect of being honest and open with each other, but I feel like I really am on holiday with a good friend. The blunder that threw us together on this crazy trip now feels like a blessing and we both have a spring in our step as we head out of the hotel and make our way down to Jemaa el-Fnaa, where a rickety old bus awaits us packed with tourists heading to the Atlas Mountains to hike, ride camels and camp overnight.
I raise an eyebrow as I take in the bus. It’s painted with the slogan ‘Atlas Adventures’ in peeling paint, the bright sunny weather showing no mercy in illuminating its flaking rusty exterior. The bumper is hanging is hanging off and looks like it might just fall free any second.
‘Erm, Will,’ I nudge him, pointing at the bumper.
‘Oh …’ Will pulls a face. ‘I wondered why it was so cheap.’
‘Oh no!’ I laugh, trying to push the worries about boarding this claptrap out of my mind as Will hands our tickets to the driver.
We hop on board and make our way to our seats. A red-haired woman tuts as though we’ve been holding the group up and looks at her watch, but otherwise, everyone seems to be in good spirits.
The sight of a dozen or so happy-looking tourists who seem to have put their faith in this dodgy-looking bus reassures me a bit. We sit down at two free seats near the back of the bus, behind a Scandinavian couple who say hello, looking up from flicking through photos on their camera.
The scenery as we leave Marrakech and head into the mountains is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The urban buildings of the city rapidly give way to the most rugged beautiful landscape I’ve ever seen. The earth is a rich reddish terracotta shade spattered with greenish purple-tinged shrubbery. I’d seen pictures of the rural landscape in my guidebook before the trip, but the photos didn’t do it justice. They don’t capture just how vast and awe-inspiring the mountains are or how vast and endless the desert looks.
‘It’s breath-taking, isn’t it?’ I turn to Will, who’s gazing out of the window, taking everything in just as I had been.
‘It really is,’ he agrees. ‘It’s amazing to see this side of Morocco.’
A faraway look suddenly enters his eyes.
‘What was it like back when you first visited?’ I ask.
Will looks away from the mountains rolling past beyond the window. ‘It was awful. There were a lot of casualties. The café where the bombing took place had been blown to bits. Everyone was really traumatised. It was tough,’ he says, regretfully.
‘God, that must have been so hard,’ I remark, realising just how different mine and Will’s worlds have been. While he was at bomb sites interviewing people who’d just been through unimaginable trauma, I was in my trendy Camden office, writing about the latest beauty treatment or celebrity fashion trend, entrepreneurs playing games of team-building ping-pong in the background. I feel a twinge of humility coupled with admiration for some of the things Will’s done.
‘It wasn’t the best trip I’ve ever been on,’ he says, with a sad smile.
‘I can imagine,’ I comment. I decide not to ask too much more about it. We’re on holiday now and it’s not exactly the most uplifting subject for Will to dwell on.
Once we get settled into the journey, we start chatting to the Scandinavian couple in front of us. It turns out they’re from Sweden/ Alice is a nurse and her boyfriend, Lucas, works for a bank. They’ve been celebrating their one-year anniversary and have been visiting Morocco as part of a two-week trip that started in Spain. They flew into Barcelona, which is one of the few travel destinations I’ve visited in recent years, and we have a fun time talking about the Gaudi architecture and the Picasso museum. They then flew down to Seville, exploring the Andalusia region, before flying to Marrakech. They don’t say it, but I get the impression Marrakech isn’t quite what they imagined and that it’s possibly a bit too intense for them. They seem to have found Jemaa el-Fnaa a bit overwhelming and they’re clearly looking forward to exploring the mountains, which will be a lot more serene. I smile sympathetically, remembering how I felt when I first walked through the square and collided with a donkey cart while coming face-to-face with a snake.
Will starts telling them about his previous trips in Morocco and some of his other, wilder adventures, like the time he got drunk with the Russian mafia on an overnight train to Moscow while on a reporting trip, or the time he nearly got taken hostage by insurgents at the Syrian border. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Will’s life has been incredibly interesting, but he knows it. The couple seem a bit flummoxed by Will’s off-the-beaten-track exploration, which is probably worlds away from their idea of a holiday. Fortunately, before Will can recount any more even crazier tales, the driver turns off into a terminal and parks the bus.
We all look out of the windows, taking stock of our new surroundings. The terminal appears to be on the edge of a small village surrounded by rugged terracotta mountains, stretching into the distance. There are a few other tourist buses parked in bays.
The driver turns the engine off and gets up to address us.
‘This is a traditional Moroccan hillside village, known for its skilled local craftspeople and bustling souk. There are many cafés where you can get lunch. Let’s take a break and meet back here in two hours.’ He glances at his watch. ‘So we’ll meet back here at 1.30 p.m., okay? Then we will head to the mountains. Everyone happy?’
Everyone agrees that this is a good plan and we all unload from the bus.
As lovely as the Swedish couple are, I’d rather explore the village alone with Will. Fortunately, Alice and Lucas seem to want to explore alone too and wish us an enjoyable lunch. Returning the sentiment, we split off in a different direction.
We pass through a beautiful ornate brass gate from the carpark and enter the village. It’s a lot calmer and more laidback than Marrakech, but it’s still bustling with a busy vibrant main square surrounded by souks. There are more craft-sellers than in Marrakech, with potters and jewellery makers, laying out their wares on the pebbles of the square. The vibe is a lot more chilled and Will and I wander happily through the square, admiring the craft-sellers’ wares and picking up a few more gifts for people back home.
Eventually, we nip into a restaurant to have lunch and sit by the window, chatting away while eating ‘Sesku’ – a traditional Moroccan couscous dish with vegetables, meat and raisins. It’s so delicious that Will and I lapse into silence as we eat. I take anot
her bite, before placing my fork down and picking up my glass of orange juice.
‘What time is it?’ I ask Will, before taking a sip.
He looks at his watch. ‘Five past one. Don’t worry, we still have loads of time,’ he says, before sipping his beer.
‘Well, not exactly loads,’ I comment.
‘Relax, Natalie,’ Will says, with an encouraging smile. ‘We’re on holiday.’
‘I know,’ I relent. He’s right. We’re on holiday and I should just relax but I’m so used to having work pressure and Hera and being on a schedule that it’s hard not to feel just a bit uptight when you know your time is limited. Plus, as nice as this village is, I know how excited Will is about this excursion and I really don’t want us to miss it.
‘Look, even if we are a tiny bit late. It’s not like they would leave without us,’ he says, before taking another bite.
‘They might …’ I murmur.
‘They won’t!’
Will distracts me from fretting by asking how Hera’s doing. I show him the latest photo my mum sent of her, which came through while we were on the bus and Will was deep into his story about getting pissed with the Russian mafia. It’s a picture of Hera fast asleep in her cot clutching Mr Bear.
‘She’s so cute,’ Will comments. ‘You know you see some kids and beauty seems to be in the eye of the beholder? Their parents adore them, but they just look a bit …’ Will pauses, searching for the right words.
‘Like wrinkled balls of flesh?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah,’ Will laughs. ‘But Hera isn’t like that. She’s actually really adorable.’
I smile, feeling touched. ‘Aww, thanks Will. She’s a beauty,’ I reply proudly.
Will smiles warmly. ‘It so sweet how much you dote on her.’
‘I really do. Honestly, I didn’t realise I was capable of this much love.’ I take a sip of my juice and glance down at the table. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’ve been away from Hera for three nights now or what, but I suddenly feel a bit emotional.
‘It’s been a hard year,’ I tell Will, reflecting on everything that’s happened back home. ‘Hera was just two weeks old when Leroy, my ex, bolted. She was crying constantly. I was still exhausted from the birth and I felt like my world was ending. I honestly didn’t know how I was going to cope.’
I gaze blankly out of the window of the café, my mind full of memories of that difficult time.
‘Bastard,’ Will remarks, taking me by surprise. ‘Leroy, not you,’ he adds.
‘Yeah! You’re right,’ I laugh.
‘I have to admit, my mum did mention it to me. What he did was so bad that word spread, I guess,’ Will says, a little sheepishly.
‘I figured. I know what Chiddingfold’s like!’
‘It’s truly unforgivable. Does he have any contact now?’ Will asks.
‘Nope. He just disappeared. He blocked me on all social media. I haven’t received as much as a text. I guess it was a case of out of sight, out of mind,’ I say, aware of how bitter I must sound.
Will looks completely disgusted. ‘What a complete scumbag,’ he sighs, shaking his head.
‘He is. There’s no question about that. He’s a complete scumbag, through and through. But I’m not angry anymore, believe it or not,’ I tell him, meaning it. ‘I was angry. I was livid, but I’ve moved on from that now. Now I just pity him, and pity is a better place to be. Pity doesn’t eat away at you.’
Will nods, taking my words in. ‘You’re right, pity is a much better place to be.’
I take a bite of my wrap and place it back on my plate.
I finish chewing and decide to keep talking. I don’t usually open up much about Leroy. It’s still such a painful period of my life, but I feel comfortable speaking about it to Will, maybe because he opened up about his marriage.
‘I had a hard time at first, and things still aren’t exactly perfect. After all, I didn’t think I’d be back living at home with my mum at 32, but I’m a hell of a lot happier now than I was. It’s really thanks to my mum and my friends and my workmates, they pulled me through. I’m so lucky to have such strong inspiring women around me,’ I say, feeling a bit emotional. I distract myself by turning my attention back to my lunch.
‘You’re strong too, Natalie. You’re incredibly strong,’ Will says, taking me by surprise. He holds my gaze. ‘You’re an inspiration.’
‘Thanks, Will!’ I reply a little taken aback.
‘You really are. You’re clearly completely devoted to Hera,’ Will remarks. ‘And you’re a successful businesswoman. I think it’s amazing what you’ve achieved, running a thriving business while being such a brilliant mum. You should be incredibly proud of yourself.’
‘That’s so sweet of you to say,’ I reply, feeling genuinely touched.
‘It’s a shame Leroy was so intimidated by you,’ Will sighs, before taking another mouthful of couscous.
Huh?’ What’s he on about? ‘Leroy cheated,’ I explain.
Will shrugs. ‘That doesn’t mean he wasn’t intimidated by you,’ he says. ‘I reckon that’s why he cheated.’
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to suss out what he means.
‘What did Leroy do for a living?’ Will asks.
‘He was a furniture upcycler,’ I explain, a little sheepishly.
‘A what?’ Will replies.
I describe what Leroy’s ‘occupation’ entailed.
‘I see …’ Will murmurs, pulling a face. ‘Yep, he was intimidated by you. Let me guess, he went for someone who wasn’t a successful businesswoman? Maybe someone younger? More inexperienced? Someone who might look up to him?’
‘Errr …’ I utter, not quite sure how to react.
‘Look, I know it sounds weird, but Leroy sounds like a pathetic excuse for a man and he probably wanted a woman who wasn’t as successful as you, so he could feel like the big man,’ Will explains.
‘Maybe …’ I murmur, looking down at my plate. Could it be true? I’d always imagined Leroy went for Lydia because he was just a pathetic spineless asshole, but could it have been about something else? Could it really be that he was just looking for someone who’d look up to him a bit more than I did? After all, it probably wasn’t doing wonders for his ego that I was the one paying for holidays. I was essentially the breadwinner in our relationship. I suppose it’s possible that Leroy wanted to be with a younger, more impressionable woman, who might actually be naive and gullible enough to look up to him and not see him for the work-shy no-good fool that he was. The thought is strangely comforting.
Will looks at his watch as the waiter retreats. ‘We need to get going soon. The bus leaves in ten minutes.’
‘Ten minutes?!’ I gawp.
‘Yeah,’ Will replies casually.
‘We’d better go then! Oh my God!’ I look over my shoulder and call the waiter back, asking for the bill.
‘Relax, the bus stop is only a two-minute walk away!’ Will says, taking another bite of his lunch.
‘I know, but the driver said to be there at 1.30 p.m. He specifically told us not to be late!’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll head off now. We won’t be late.’ Will smiles.
I shovel in the last few mouthfuls of my wrap and wash it down with the rest of my juice. The waiter brings the bill over. Will and I both reach for our wallets and go fifty-fifty, placing dirham notes on the silver dish on the table, before thanking the waiter in a flurry of compliments and ‘shukrans’ and dashing out.
The square is even busier now than when we first arrived as even more sellers have set up their stalls. There are more tourists as well, milling around. The smell of kebab meat drifts from a few street food vendors. I can’t spot the exit, so I look through the crowd to try to spy the shoe stall, but there are so many people and so many similar-looking stalls that it’s proving impossible. I look to Will.
‘Which way is it?’ I ask, panicked.
Will’s eyes dart through the crowd and even he, with all hi
s roving war reporter travel experience, is beginning to look a little stressed out.
‘I think it’s this way,’ I comment, spotting what looks like the ornate brass gate from the carpark in the distance.
‘Cool,’ Will replies.
We hurry across the square, towards the brass gate.
‘Oh yeah, this is it.’ Will lets out a sigh of relief as we reach the brass gate with its distinctive design.
I glance at my watch. ‘We’re only a few minutes late!’ I tell him as we hurry through the gate.
‘It was this way.’ I point across the depot and cut between a donkey cart loaded with crates of live clucking chickens and a parked truck. Will follows.
We cross a layby, where a man is unloading boxes from a van. I look towards the space where our tourist bus had been parked.
‘Hang on a minute, where is it?’ I ask, scanning the empty space where our tour bus was. I turn, taking in the nearby bays in case I’ve missed it, but there’s no sign of it. The bus is gone and the only vehicles in nearby bays are vans with what looks like business names painted in Arabic on the side, as well as a few parked juice carts.
‘Will!’ I turn to him, desperate. He’s glancing around, looking as confused and worried as I am.
‘I really didn’t think they’d leave without us,’ he utters, wiping the sweat off his brow. ‘We’re only a few minutes late. That’s ridiculous!’
‘Oh my God, Will! I told you we were cutting it fine.’ I groan, exasperated.
Will frowns. ‘Why would they leave like that? I don’t get why they couldn’t have just waited five minutes.’
‘I don’t know. This is so annoying!’ I sigh, scanning the entire carpark again, in case the bus has moved, but it’s nowhere to be seen. There are just a few other juice carts and a couple of transit vans.
‘Five minutes late and they leave, that’s so unreasonable,’ Will huffs.
I slump onto a nearby wall. ‘They probably just thought we were going to have our own adventure or something. You did go on and on to Alice and Lucas about how much you love venturing off the beaten track. Maybe they thought we had just decided to abandon the touristy day trip and do our own thing,’ I suggest.
