by Isabel Wolff
“Fantastic idea,” she said, when I phoned her. “I’m pretty exhausted myself. I know, we could go on a singles holiday—meet lots of chaps.”
“What, like Club 18-50, you mean?”
“Club Med,” she said.
“Club Mediterrané?”
“Yes. Let’s go to the one in the Bahamas.”
“But Kate, the Bahamas aren’t in the Mediterranean,” I pointed out.
She appeared to ignore this. “Paradise Island, on the Bahamas,” she persisted. “I’ve seen it in the Club Med brochure. It looks fantastic, and apparently it’s stuffed with eligible single men.”
“OK,” I said. “Book it. Let’s go tomorrow.”
“Er, a bit soon. How about next week?”
“Next week it is then.”
October
OK—bikinis (two)—tick; swimsuits (two)—tick; Philips Ladyshave (one)—tick; Vidal Sassoon professional travel turbo hairdryer (one)—tick; adaptor plug for Vidal Sassoon travel turbo hairdryer (one)—tick; Braun Style ’n’ Go cordless tong and brush (one)—tick; Carmen classic hot airbrush styler (one)—tick; sundresses (fourteen)—tick; sarongs (five)—tick; beach towel (one)—tick; waterproof mascara (three)—tick; sunglasses (five pairs, four of which I will lose)—tick; high-factor sunblock—er, still got to get that; cardigans for cool evenings (two)—tick; tennis racket (one)—tick; tennis dresses (four)—tick; tennis shoes (two pairs)—tick; Swiss army knife (one)—tick; antique roses tapestry kit (one)—tick; small knapsack for excursions (one)—tick; mosquito spray (two bottles)—tick; medical kit (one)—tick, including Arret—just in case, though I’m told the food at Club Med is v good—tick; shampoo (three bottles)—tick; conditioner (ditto)—tick; assorted toiletries (one lge bag)—tick; smart dresses for evening cocktail parties and disco (twenty-three)—tick; inflatable neck pillow for greater in-flight comfort (one)—tick; improving books (seven)—tick; portable CD player (one)—tick; notepad in case I get brilliant idea for slogans (one)—tick; travel alarm clock (one)—tick; concealer (two)—tick . . .
“Tiffany, why are you always making lists?” said Kit, with evident exasperation.
“Because I need to,” I said. “For my holiday. So I don’t forget anything. I’m just being sensible, that’s all. How many thermos flasks do you think I should take?”
“But Tiffany”—he picked up my pad of A4—“this list runs to seventeen pages. You can’t possibly need all this stuff. It’s a beach holiday, not a round-the-world trip. You’re not Michael Palin.”
“Yes, but I might meet some nice chap and I’ve got to look my best. Kate says its going to be a bloke-filled Bahamian Rhapsody. She says Paradise Island is—and I quote—‘Stuffed with eligible single chaps.’ Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s wonderful. You really need a break. I don’t think you realize how stressed you are. The constant list-making, and the obsessive counting. And I’ve noticed you talking to the microwave recently.”
“Have you? But the microwave’s cracked.”
“And I heard you muttering something to the fridge the other day.”
“No, that’s not true—I find the fridge a little cold.”
“Tiffany, when are you off to Club Mad?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Good. The sooner the better. In fact, I think you should bring it forward. I’m going on a bloke-filled holiday too,” he added.
“You are?”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I’ve signed up for it.”
“What?”
“ ‘Menswork—Discover Your Inner Warrior Weekend Workshop.’ ” My Gaard! “I’m going down to Winchester this Friday.”
“Have you told Portia?”
“No. I simply said—and God I hated not telling her what I was doing—but I simply said that I ‘wouldn’t be around’ at the weekend. That’s what I said, just like this: ‘Portia, I’m afraid I won’t be around this weekend.’ I don’t think she liked it much.”
“Well—good,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m going to celebrate my manhood. Do a bit of bonding, with eighty other blokes.”
“I don’t think you should drive down in the Discovery,” I said.
“No, I’ve thought about that,” he said. “I’m going to do something really macho—I’m going to hitch.”
“Why don’t you just get the train?” I suggested.
“Well, because . . . I’ve been looking at the brochure and I’ve got to start as I mean to go on,” he replied. “I’ve got to take risks—push out boundaries, do things I wouldn’t normally do—and basically, men who are in touch with their ‘inner warrior’ don’t get the eight forty-five from Waterloo.”
The thought of Kit’s forthcoming weekend had lifted his spirits, and I felt similarly uplifted by the thought of my holiday on Paradise Island. Sun, sea and sand swam in my imagination; Kate and I would have a fortnight of fun. But there were hidden dangers. I popped down to Oxford Street to get some sunblock to keep the Caribbean rays at bay.
“I need factor ninety-five,” I said to the young girl on the sun protection counter in the department store. “I’m going to the Bahamas, and I’m concerned about my collagen.”
“Why don’t you just wear a balaclava,” she suggested as she took the money for five large bottles of Factor Thirty Extra-Waterproof Total Bloc—otherwise known as cement. “Or better still,” she added, “go to Iceland.”
“Why don’t you get lost?” I said. Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, “What an excellent idea. I’ll go round to the travel agent right now and ask them to change my ticket. I’ve heard October’s a particularly good month for Reykjavik.”
“I’ve heard October’s a particularly good month for the Bahamas,” said Kate when I met her at the British Airways check-in at Gatwick two days later. “It’s the beginning of high season—the weather should be brilliant.”
“I mean, it’s going to be really hot,” she reiterated five hours later as we sat in the departures lounge, still waiting to board our delayed flight. “I mean it’s going to be boiling. We’ll really have to be careful. Especially you.”
By this time I had finished reading How to Make Anyone Fall in Love with You and was halfway through A Suitable Boy.
“There’ll be lots of suitable boys at Club Med,” quipped Kate happily as she returned from her seventh visit to the Alders Duty Free shop.
“I think I’d prefer a suitable man.”
Finally, our flight was called. We boarded the plane, fastened our seatbelts and took off for Paradise Island. But isn’t twelve hours a long time to sit on a plane? Especially when the in-flight entertainment is appalling, every windowseat is taken, there’s a two-hour stop in the Caymans, and your next-door-neighbor is a crying baby?
“God, I feel dreadful,” said Kate as we shunted our luggage through Nassau airport at three A.M. the following morning. “Still, at least we’re guaranteed to have good weather. It’ll be sweltering. I wonder how we’re meant to get to the resort?”
We found the answer outside the airport in the form of a handsome young man. In one hand he was grasping a sign saying CLUB MED. In the other, he was holding aloft a large, black, dripping umbrella.
This Melrose Place is brilliant. I’ve been watching it every day. In my room at Club Med. But I find myself wondering two things: a) Why does Heather Locklear still look twenty-five? Is she bathing in ass’s milk, or drinking the blood of young virgins? And b) When is it going to stop raining?
“Sorry folks, it’s the tail end of a hurricane,” said one of the Gentil Organisateurs or GOs, as we Club Medders say. “The sun will shine again,” he said; and then he quickly added, “Le soleil brillera encore; die Sonne wird scheinen; el sol volvera a brillar; sola skinner nok igjen; mata haremasuyo.” Because, you see, all these GOs, they’re multilingual. Apparently they can say, “OK everybody, let’s party!” in twenty-three different languages.
That’s what’s so nice about Club Dead, I mean, Club Med—it’s dead international. I mean, we’ve met—well actually, we haven’t met anyone yet because of the rain, but when it stops, I’m sure we will. We’ll meet lots of people then. It’s only a matter of time. Millions of single chaps. From all over the world. Thank God we booked for two weeks, because it’s been raining nonstop for four days now. And how clever of me to bring my Clarins self-tanning cream. Anyway, fortunately there are seventy-two channels on the TV. So when I’m not watching Melrose Place I watch reruns of Peyton Place on the nostalgia channel, and there’s the CNN twenty-four-hour weather channel and of course I’m taking a close interest in the ads. Some of them are really gross. Ads for herpes treatments, hernia trusses, and toenail fungus creams are, unfortunately, common. Thank God it’s not like that in the UK. Thank God we have such rigorous advertising standards. Thank God we only show ads for Tampax, sanitary towels, dandruff shampoos and anti-thrush treatments. Oh yes. And another thing I’ve been doing is writing postcards. It helps to pass the time. I’ve already sent fifty-six including three each to Frances, Sally, Catherine, Emma, Kit, Lizzie and Martin. But of course I’m not sending one to Seriously Successful. That would be stupid. Anyway, this morning, very, very early, I was suddenly awoken by a loud knocking on my door. Clearly someone wanted to speak to me. It was Kate.
“I’m just off to the beginners’ step-aerobics exercise class,” she said. “I thought I’d let you know. It’s only six-thirty. You can go back to sleep now.”
“Thanks.”
When I got up three hours later—still feeling the effects of jet lag actually—I couldn’t help noticing that it had stopped raining. Fantastic! I dashed over to the restaurant for breakfast and there was Kate, chatting to this rather charming chap.
“Tiffany, this is Jurgen,” she said. “He was in my step-aerobics class this morning.”
“Hello,” I said. “Tiffany. Tiffany Trott.”
He smiled, and then he said, “Are you students?” Students! He had got to be joking!
“Er, no,” we said. “We’re both working. We’ve both been working for quite a long time, actually—years and years. In fact we’re practically retired!”
“Ach so.” He looked rather surprised. “Well, you look so young, I thought you must be students.” I was beginning to enjoy this holiday.
“Are you a student?” I asked him pleasantly.
“No,” he replied, “I’m thirty-five—I left university last year. I’m a tax lawyer now.”
After breakfast we all went down to the beach. The sea was so warm, and the sun was incredibly hot. This was more like it.
“Do you like that German chap?” I asked Kate as we spread out our towels.
“Well, he’s very nice,” she said. “I think I do. But do you like him?”
“Well, yes, he’s OK, but, I mean, you saw him first,” I said.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to stand in your way, Tiffany, you know, if you really felt that you’d like to get to know him.”
“Oh no, no, no, no—don’t think about me. In any case, I’m sure he likes you.”
“No—I think he likes you, Tiffany. I get the impression he likes blondes.”
“No, I think he’s keener on brunettes. He’s definitely keen on you—his body language was notably positive. I think you should make an effort to talk to him again.”
“Well, OK, then,” she said reluctantly, “I will. As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile. Just then we saw Jurgen walking toward us—hand in hand with a rather attractive blonde. Blast.
“Hullooo,” he said. “Zis is my fiancée, Gudrun. She has been having golf coaching all zis morning and now ve are going to sit on ze beach until lunch.”
“Well, just make sure you don’t put your towels down on the best sun-loungers!” I said. Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, “Hello, Gudrun.”
Got that one wrong, then. Oh well. And in fact, to be perfectly honest, there did seem to be rather a lot of couples. Fun-loving couples, I suppose you’d call them, all frolicking in the sea, cuddling under the palm trees, rubbing suntan lotion into each other’s backs, or strolling hand in hand through the pounding surf. Bloody sickening.
“I thought you said that Paradise Island was full of single blokes,” I said to Kate as we built a small, but impressive sand castle.
“Well, I thought it was,” she said.
“In fact, do correct me if I’m wrong,” I continued, “I distinctly remember you saying that it was ‘absolutely stuffed with eligible single men.’ ”
“Well, that’s what I was told. Maybe it’s one of the other Bahamian Club Meds, maybe I got them mixed up . . .”
There were, we also couldn’t help noticing, quite a few same-sex, fun-loving couples. Particularly women. At lunch later that day we met a couple of rather fierce-looking worshippers at the shrine of Sappho—Jane and Sandra from Solihull.
“What does your girlfriend do?” Jane asked me as Kate went up to the buffet to get some more seafood salad.
“My girlfriend? Oh. Oh, Kate’s not my girlfriend. Well, not in that sense, ha ha ha!” I said. “We’re just having a holiday together. That’s all.”
“Oh I see—you’re just good friends, are you?” said Sandra with a rasping laugh. “Heard that one before!”
“No, no, no, no, really,” I added, adjusting my sarong. “I mean, I wouldn’t like you to think . . .”
“It’s all right, Tiffany. Don’t get your bikini bottoms in a twist about it,” said Jane as they got up to leave. She gave me a wink. “See ya later.”
“Kate,” I said, when she sat down again. “I think I’ve identified a problem here. There seems to be an assumption that we’re gay. I don’t think this is going to assist us in our search for Mr. Right. I think we should do something to counteract this ridiculous presumption as soon as practicable.”
“OK,” she said simperingly, “I won’t hold your hand in public anymore, darling. Promise.”
“No, but seriously, Kate . . .”
“Ooh, go on, give us a kiss.”
“For goodness’ sake, Kate, this could be a real problem.”
“I really love it when you’re angry.”
“I know—let’s talk about our exes in a loud voice,” I suggested. “To indicate our unambiguous heterosexuality. So tell me what your ex-boyfriend did to you, Kate?” I inquired as I ate my apricot ice cream.
“Well, he was really horrible,” she said. “He never used to ring when he said he was going to.”
“What a bastard,” I replied.
“Yes. And he used to make me go Dutch on dates. And,” she added, “he used to drink far too much at parties and embarrass me. What about you?”
“Well, my ex-but-one, Phillip, was a golf-bore. He used to play the whole time, it was awful. But he’d never, ever do anything I wanted to do.”
“What a selfish creep!”
“Yes. And he was very controlling. He used to tell me what to wear all the time, and even made me change my clothes!”
“How outrageous! I once had a boyfriend who was just like that. He used to scream at me if I wore something he didn’t like.”
“How appalling,” I replied. “How pathetic. Also,” I added, “this man, Phil, was unfaithful. I went through hell!”
“How horrible!” said Kate. “Well, my ex was unfaithful too—and he got someone else pregnant!” Suddenly we were aware that everyone had stopped talking and was listening avidly.
“My God,” I said quietly. “How terrible.” Kate hadn’t told me this before. “What happened?”
“She had it!”
“What?”
“The baby.”
“Oh no. What did you do?”
“I stood by him,” she said simply, “and helped him. Even though I felt dreadful. I’m an expert on the Child Support Agency,” she added with a sardonic little smile. “Ask me anything you l
ike.” Poor Kate.
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“Well, when it was all over, but not until then, he dumped me.”
“No!” said a woman at the next table.
“Yes,” said Kate. “Then I got post-natal depression.”
“How horrible,” I announced, outraged, as people shook their heads and tut-tutted sympathetically. “You poor thing. Well you’re well shot of a cad like him! Well, get this,” I continued. “My last boyfriend, Alex, was a cross-dresser!”
“Get away!”
“Yes. I kept finding him in my bedroom wearing my sexy underwear.”
“Oh God!”
“And my summer dresses. But the worst thing was finding him in my Bellville Sassoon ballgown—he’d torn it very badly round the bust.”
“Bastard! Did he get it repaired?”
“No, he didn’t! And then the last man to take an interest in me was this guy I’d met through a lonely hearts ad, and do you know what . . . ?”
“What?” she said obligingly.
“He was already married! He just wanted me to be his part-time girlfriend!”
“How bloody insulting! MEN!”
“Yes. MEN!”
We glanced around the restaurant; those few single men that there were—and I had identified one or two—were scraping back their chairs. All except that nice-looking chap of about forty-five who looked a bit like Hunnicut in M*A*S*H. He was having lunch alone, outside on the veranda. Now he quite interested me, because when I was about twelve, I was in love with Hunnicut. And he was a tennis player—I knew this for a fact because I’d spotted him carrying a racket about. Now normally, I’m not at all pushy with men, but maybe, just for once, I’d be pro-active.
“Excuse me,” I said, going up to him. “My name’s Tiffany. Tiffany Trott.”
“Er, Todd,” he said. “Todd Schellenberg.” American! Or, possibly, Canadian.
“I hope you’re not Canadian,” I said. “I mean, are you Canadian?”
