Adults Only

by Morris Gleitzman

  Mum put the TV down on the stairs for a rest.

  A short one, Jake hoped.

  ‘I wish this could be different, Jake,’ said Mum. ‘I wish we could send you away. Gran’s offered to have you for the week, but the fare to Darwin’s more than we can come up with. We might have managed Melbourne, but Uncle Pete and Aunty Jo are on holiday in Fiji.’

  Jake tried to look as though that was a shame, but mostly he was trying to remember if Dad’s soldering iron was still on the blink.

  ‘If all this works out,’ Mum said, looking hard at Jake, ‘we’re going to make it up to you. When we get a good write-up in the magazine and start getting lots of bookings, me and Dad have agreed that if you want to, you can go to boarding school.’

  Jake stared at her, stunned.

  He saw how much she wanted him to be pleased.

  Her forehead was crinkled earnestly under where her fringe was stuck to it with sweat, and her eyes were steady and unblinking, even though they were a bit pink round the edges as if she wasn’t getting enough sleep.

  Jake felt an ache in his chest. He knew it wasn’t a TV-carrying ache. It was the sort of ache you get when you love someone very much and they don’t really want you around.

  He put his arms round Mum and gave her the longest hug he’d given her in months.

  Then it just came out.

  ‘There’s something else I’d rather have,’ he whispered.

  ‘What’s that?’ murmured Mum.

  Jake hesitated.

  He’d never asked before. He’d been pretty sure it wasn’t the sort of thing a kid who lived in an up-market adults-only executive retreat should ask.

  ‘A brother or sister,’ he whispered.

  There was a long silence.

  Jake began to wish he hadn’t asked now.

  Mum didn’t reply, but when he felt her tears running down his cheek, he knew the answer was no.

  Jake didn’t get into the Blue Room for another two and a half hours.

  First Dad was in there for over an hour, setting up the computer and the TV and running cables from the satellite dish on the roof and soldering his fingers.

  Jake offered to help to speed things up, but when Dad had finished sucking his hand and swearing he told Jake to go and get some fresh air while he had the chance.

  Then Mum vaccuumed the whole room, even though no guests had stayed in it for over two weeks. She wiped out the ensuite. She polished the computer screen and the TV screen. She put clean sheets on the bed. She put fresh flowers in the vases. She put fresh jellybeans in the bedside lolly bowls. She fetched the pictures from the walls of the other three guest rooms and hung them all on the walls of the Blue Room. She took them all down and put them back in their own rooms. She sprayed insect spray. She sprayed air freshener. Then she stood at the foot of the bed and slowly looked around the room.

  Jake, peeping out of the hallway linen cupboard, teeth clenched in frustration and fingernails pressed hard into the palms of his hands, prayed she wouldn’t decide to vacuum the inside of the TV or polish the chips in the computer.

  She didn’t.

  Instead she hurried downstairs.

  As soon as she’d gone, Jake darted into the Blue Room and switched on the computer.

  He glanced out the window. Panic stabbed through him. Mr Goff’s boat was already tied up at the jetty. Two windswept strangers were being helped out by Dad, who was doing a lot of nervous arm-waving and quite a bit of frantic bowing.

  The magazine people were here.

  He only had a few minutes to get the e-mail written and sent. Lucky it wouldn’t need to be a long one.

  Don’t come.

  That would do it.

  Jake wanted to give the computer a shake, it seemed so slow.

  Then, while he was waiting for it to boot up, he suddenly remembered something.

  The chat room.

  One night a couple of weeks ago he hadn’t been able to sleep because he’d felt so lonely. Crusher had tried to help by suggesting they row out to sea in Mr Goff’s dinghy and find a cruise ship with lots of families on board and torpedo it and invite the survivors to come and live on the island. Jake had decided it might be easier to join an Internet chat room.

  He’d stored the chat room software in the utilities folder on the computer. Dad wouldn’t have thought to look in there when he was moving the files. If the magazine people were investigative journalists, they might. And they’d see stuff about him.

  Jake glanced out the window again. The magazine people were coming into the house. He could hear their voices downstairs.

  He grabbed the mouse and went into the utilities folder and clicked furiously, getting rid of the chat room software and erasing all evidence of killer and babemagnet.

  And Jake.

  His head was thumping. He could hear Mum, Dad and the magazine people coming up the stairs.

  It was too late. There was no time to send the e-mail. He had to get out of there. The magazine people mustn’t see him.

  Jake wanted to kick the computer. Why was it taking so long to shut down?

  The screen went blank.

  The adults were coming along the hallway. He couldn’t even get back into the hallway linen cupboard. He looked wildly around the room for somewhere to hide.

  Not the ensuite. Guests always needed a pee after two hours of bouncing around in the boat. Not the wardrobe. They’d be wanting to hang their pants up after two hours on Mr Goff’s clammy vinyl seats.

  There was only one thing to do.

  Jake dived under the bed.

  6

  Four pairs of feet and ankles came into the room.

  ‘I’ll put your suitcases here,’ said Dad’s voice. Jake heard the suitcase racks groan as they took the weight and Dad groan as he straightened up.

  ‘Where would you like your camera bag?’ asked Mum’s voice.

  ‘Just fling it off a cliff,’ said a man’s voice. ‘The last thing I want to think about with a wonderful view like this is a boring old magazine article.’

  There was a silence. Jake imagined Mum and Dad struggling to breathe.

  ‘Only joking,’ said the man’s voice. ‘We’ll get some great shots. Wonderful place you’ve got here. I can see why you decided to make it adults-only. Kids would ruin it.’

  Jake huddled on the floorboards under what he hoped was the middle of the bed. As far away from the edges as possible.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the places we visit,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Finest hotels in the world. Sublime food. Superb service. And then you get into a lift and it’s full of snotty-nosed kids with sticky mitts, giggling and farting.’

  ‘How awful,’ said Mum nervously.

  Jake held his breath and begged his body to be quiet. No heart thumping. No tummy gurgling. As little farting as possible.

  He peered out at the feet and ankles.

  Two pairs he recognised.

  He knew the ankles with bandaids on them were Mum’s because she was always complaining how going up and down the stairs a million times a day made her shoes rub.

  And the pants legs with the flour and quail feathers on them were definitely Dad’s because he did most of the cooking.

  Jake stared at the other two pairs.

  Gee, he thought, magazine people don’t wear very sensible shoes.

  The magazine woman’s brown feet and ankles were in gold sandals with very thin straps and high heels. The magazine man was wearing purple socks and lace-up shoes. The shoes didn’t have high heels, but they were made from something Jake didn’t recognise. Snakeskin or crocodile skin or possibly the skin of a cow with very bad pimples.

  ‘That press release of yours was an inspired idea,’ said the magazine man. ‘Making it read as if a child had written it. Brilliant way to publicise a no-kids joint. Who’s idea was it?’

  ‘Um…’ said Dad in a slightly strangled voice.

  ‘All of ours really,’ said Mum. ‘I mean both of ours
.’

  The gold sandals took a step towards the bed.

  Jake squeezed himself as small as he could.

  ‘This house is truly charming,’ said the magazine woman. ‘And what a delightful room.’

  ‘It’s our favourite,’ said Mum. ‘Some very famous people have slept in this room.’

  Please, begged Jake silently. Don’t start telling them the history of the place now. He was getting a cramp in his leg. Take them for a tour round the rest of the house, he pleaded. Show them the electric can opener in the kitchen.

  ‘We bought this place from Percival Falkiner, the artist,’ continued Mum. ‘The celebrities he had staying here over the years. Picasso. At least one member of the Swedish Royal Family. Roald Dahl.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Dad, ‘I think that was Ronald Dahl the painter.’

  ‘Oo look,’ said the man’s voice as the pimply shoes moved closer to Jake. ‘Jellybeans.’

  Suddenly Jake felt something tickling his nose. He knew what it was. One of the quail feathers from Dad’s pants. That’s the trouble with hundred and twenty year old stone houses, thought Jake as he struggled to get his hand to his face. Drafts.

  He was going to sneeze.

  He sneezed.

  To try and stop it, he jammed his finger under his nose. The sneeze stayed silent. His head jerked up. And thumped into the bed slats.

  ‘What was that?’ said a voice above him.

  Jake wasn’t sure whose voice it was because his ears were ringing and panic was pounding in his head.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the magazine man. ‘I must have kicked the bed when I reached for the jellybeans.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Dad. ‘Picasso was always doing that.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Mum, ‘some pretty famous people have slept in this actual bed. We had a couple here last year and I’m positive I recognised his face. From that hot chicken ad on TV.’

  ‘Come on Maureen, said Dad hastily. ‘I’m sure our guests would like to unpack and freshen up.’

  No, thought Jake desperately. They’d like a tour of the house and the garden and the beach and all the rocks.

  ‘We hope you have a wonderful stay,’ said Mum. ‘If there’s anything you need, anything at all…’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the magazine woman.

  No, wailed Jake silently as he watched Mum and Dad’s feet and ankles disappear out the door. Which clicked shut.

  Jake heard the key turn in the lock.

  It was just him. And the magazine people.

  The mattress above his head creaked violently. For a moment Jake didn’t know what was happening. Then he realised someone had sat down on the bed.

  ‘I like it here,’ said the magazine man as he leaned forward and undid his laces. ‘No traffic, no pollution, no kids…’

  His hand was so close Jake could see the tufts of dark hair on his fingers. If he put his head any further down…

  Don’t, begged Jake silently. Just kick your shoes off with your feet.

  The magazine man kicked his shoes off with his feet. One of them spun under the bed and hit Jake in the head.

  Leave it where it is, pleaded Jake, eyes watering from the pain and the smell of sweaty leather.

  The magazine man left his shoe where it was.

  ‘That boat trip was a bit much,’ called the magazine woman from the ensuite. Jake wasn’t sure exactly what she said next because she was peeing so loudly, but it sounded like ‘If this was my place I’d send that skipper on a hospitality course’.

  A desperate plan formed in Jake’s mind. He could pretend he was part of Mr Goff’s crew. A junior crew member doing work experience. Learning how to sail a small diesel passenger boat in rough waters and deliver seafood without being attacked by crabs.

  Yes. It could work. The magazine people need never know he was Mum and Dad’s son.

  There was just one problem.

  What was a work experience sailor doing under the bed?

  Jake’s excitement flopped. So did the magazine man’s trousers. Onto the floor.

  Put walking shorts on, begged Jake. Go for a walk round the island. Both of you.

  The magazine man’s shirt dropped to the floor. Followed by his underpants.

  The bed creaked some more. The magazine man sighed contentedly. He didn’t sound to Jake like a man going for a walk, he sounded more like a man lying down.

  Jake would have sighed if he could.

  ‘If this was my place,’ said the magazine man, ‘I’d build an extension along the cliff top with twenty suites, bung in a golf course and open a health spa. You couldn’t lose. Fantastic views. Fantastic air. Peace and quiet and privacy. And this house is to die for.’

  Jake wasn’t sure, but he hoped that was good.

  ‘We should have come here for our honeymoon,’ continued the magazine man.

  ‘Yes,’ said the magazine woman, coming out of the ensuite wearing, Jake saw just before he closed his eyes, only her bra and underpants. ‘Though I did quite like the Ritz-Grande Baghdad. Except the truffle soup was out of a can.’

  ‘I’m having a little lie down,’ said the magazine man. ‘Fancy one?’

  ‘Mmmmm,’ said the magazine woman, ‘OK.’

  Jake wasn’t quick enough closing his eyes again. The magazine woman’s bra and underpants dropped to the floor centimetres from his face.

  The bed creaked again, and kept on creaking rhythmically for what Jake reckoned was about twenty minutes.

  The magazine people sighed sometimes, and moaned a bit.

  Jake would have sighed and moaned too, if he’d dared make any noise. His back was killing him. And his cheeks were so hot they felt like they were cooking.

  For pete’s sake, he said to his cheeks. You’ve spent your entire lives in an adults-only retreat. You must be used to this by now. Grow up.

  Finally the bed stopped creaking.

  Jake waited another ten minutes or so.

  Both of the magazine people in the bed above him seemed to be breathing slowly and steadily.

  He hoped that meant they were asleep.

  And not reading.

  Or lying there with rolled-up magazines waiting for him to stick his head out.

  He stuck his head out.

  Nothing whacked him.

  Jake slid himself out from under the bed, slowly, painfully, all his muscles stiff and all his bones aching.

  He lay on the floor, listening.

  A naked hairy arm was dangling over the side of the bed. Not moving.

  Slowly, carefully, Jake stood up. The pins and needles in his legs almost made him fall over. He tottered a bit and remembered not to grab the bed.

  He forgot not to look at the bed.

  The magazine people were both sprawled on top of the sheet, asleep and naked.

  Jake quickly turned away, but not before noticing that they were both a bit older and plumper than Mum and Dad.

  Probably all that truffle soup.

  Jake found himself in front of the dressing table, staring at the computer. It was so tempting. Boot it up, email the kids at school to change their holiday plans to Baghdad, then scram.

  Tempting, but too risky.

  I’ll do it later, thought Jake. The magazine people will have to leave the room sometime. This evening probably, for dinner. I’ll be ready.

  He crept slowly to the door, careful not to slip on any underwear and do a double backwards somersault and crash to the floor.

  The door was locked.

  This was the tricky bit.

  Jake prayed that Dad had oiled the locks of all the rooms like Mum had asked him to.

  Then, slowly, slowly, Jake turned the key.

  A soft click.

  Jake wished the thumping in his chest was as soft.

  He didn’t turn to see if the click or the thumping had woken the magazine people. He’d know in about five seconds, and this way he didn’t have to see the magazine woman’s nipples again.

  First rule
of hotel management, he thought while he waited. Don’t look at the guest’s nipples.

  The magazine people didn’t wake up.

  Now, he thought, slow and silent.

  Jake took about three minutes to open the door. He took two minutes to step out of the room. He took another two minutes to close the door.

  The hinges, oiled and in perfect condition, didn’t make a sound.

  Good on you, Dad, thought Jake.

  He hurried down the stairs, along the passage, round the corner, and leant against the wall, legs trembling, breathing in great relieved lungfuls of air.

  It had been a close thing.

  The thought of going back into that room later to send the e-mail made Jake’s guts curdle faster than Dad’s lemon and yoghurt soup.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ said Crusher when Jake got back to his room. ‘You can do it from the office computer.’

  Jake remembered that the office computer didn’t have the class’s e-mail addresses on it.

  ‘OK,’ said Crusher. ‘I was wrong. You’ve got a problem.’

  7

  ‘Ouch,’ said Crusher.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jake, wincing.

  Crusher was tough, but there was a limit.

  Jake hurriedly wiped the soap out of Crusher’s eyes.

  ‘Thanks for letting me do this,’ said Jake, lathering Crusher all over.

  Crusher didn’t reply. Jake could see that Crusher didn’t particularly like it, but that he knew Jake wouldn’t be doing it unless it was important.

  ‘It’s in case Mum and Dad spring us here,’ explained Jake. ‘They’ll want to know why I’m in the laundry instead of in my room and I can truthfully say it’s because I’m giving you a bath. I won’t have to say anything about being able to see the magazine people’s door from here.’

  The door that had been closed for nearly nineteen hours.

  For the hundredth time, Jake crouched down next to the laundry sink and peered up the stairs. From that angle he could just see the bottom of the door.

  It was still closed.

  Jake sighed. He didn’t get it.

  ‘Why would people come all this way to a remote island,’ he said to Crusher, ‘and then spend nineteen hours in their room? They could have done that at home.’