by Isabel Wolff
“No. I’m from L.A.”
“Oh good. Well, you see, I couldn’t help noticing that you’re a tennis player, and I wondered if you could direct me to the courts.”
“Oh well, er,” he gulped his coffee down, “sure. Here, let me draw you a little map. It’s at the south end of the resort—about a five-minute walk. Near the main gates. The best thing is if you just turn up there and ask to join in the coaching,” he said. “It’s every morning at eight-thirty. Of course it’s been too wet to play over the last three days, but the forecast’s fine for tomorrow. See you there,” he said with a smile as he stood up to leave.
“Kate,” I said as we left the restaurant, “what you just said, just now, about your ex. Is that true?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“God, how awful for you. Er, do you want to talk about it?”
“No, I don’t,” she said wearily. And then she added, with sudden, studied brightness, “I want to go back to the beach!”
The next morning I got up early, did my stretching exercises, put on my best Fred Perry tennis dress, full makeup—God, I hoped it wasn’t going to get too hot otherwise it would all come sliming off—and headed for the tennis center. Twenty courts—what bliss. I spoke to a coach called Sebastian, who looked just like Tom Cruise—only two feet taller—and he said that I should be in the top group.
“Is the top group Todd’s group?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.” And I went and joined the group which consisted of five chaps—including Todd—and me. Anyway, Todd asked me to be his partner in the backhand exercise class and it was going really, really well, except that he stopped halfway through and came round to my side of the net and said, “Tiffany, please would you stop saying ‘Sorry’ every time you hit the ball out of the court.”
“OK,” I said, “sorry.”
And then when the lesson ended he said, “I’m staying here on my own, actually. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”
“That would be lovely,” I said, explaining that I was here with my friend Kate and she was currently doing the step-aerobics class followed by beginners’ golf followed by beach volleyball followed by intensive Ping-Pong, and he said he’d see us both in the beachside restaurant at eight. Pity I forgot to put on my sunblock, I thought to myself later as I looked in the mirror. I’d already gone rather pink. Damn.
October Continued
After lunch, Kate and I went down to the beach again, and there we were bobbing about in the sea in our bikinis and I was telling her all about Todd’s really exciting work as a cameraman for NBC when one of the GOs shouted, “OK everybody, it’s the Ladies’ Coconut-Throwing Competition! OK folkens, na kommer Kokosnottkonkurransen! Fate attenzione, è arrivato il momento del tiro delle noci di coco! Achtung! Der Kokosnusswettbewerb geht los! The winner gets a free piña colada!”
Being rather competitive, I naturally decided to enter. Quite a lot of women went for it, some of them could hardly lob at all, it was pathetic. I went last—shot-put fashion—and I threw it the farthest! Everyone clapped—I felt quite overcome—and I was just about to claim my free cocktail when, out of the blue, this really slim, tall, frankly rather attractive Belgian girl called Stella turned up and she said she’d like to have a go. I thought to myself, huh! She won’t chuck it very far. But she did. In fact she threw it farther than me. By about three feet actually, which not only irritated me, it surprised me too as she only weighs about eight stone. And afterward she put her sun-lounger next to Kate while she sipped her piña colada, and she and Kate got chatting, and before I knew what had happened Kate had invited Stella to join us for dinner, too.
“What a good idea, Kate,” I said.
“She’s terribly nice,” Kate replied. “Very impressive. She’s a stockbroker. She’s got a boyfriend, he’s a banker—Débit Suisse, I think. But he’s in the middle of this really, really big deal worth billions, and too busy to take a holiday, and so she decided to come here on her own. She’s very pretty, isn’t she? I think she’s loaded, too.”
“I should say so,” I said, “judging by her coordinating cruisewear.”
Anyway, at eight o’clock we went to meet Todd in the harborside bar and I introduced him to Kate and Stella, and then we all went into the restaurant which was delightfully situated, overlooking the sea—and Todd was being so charming, so amusing, so attentive—to Stella! It was bloody sickening. “OK Todd, I know she’s beautiful, rich, slim, successful and clever as well as being a marvelous coconut-thrower, but that’s no reason for talking to her all the time and ignoring me,” I said. Actually I didn’t say that at all. I just kept rather quiet. She was talking about skiing.
“Did you just say you were an Olympic skier?” Todd asked her with an expression of fanatical admiration.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” she said with a giggle. “I mean, I was. In 1984, at the Sarajevo Winter Olympics.”
“But I thought Belgium was flat?” I said. “And not particularly snowy.”
“Oh yes that’s true,” she said. “But I was educated in Switzerland and I learnt to ski there.” Of course. Switzerland. Where else?
“Did you get the gold?” Todd asked.
“Oh no, of course not,” she said with a descending arpeggio of tinkling laughter. “Only the silver. I keep it in the bathroom to impress my friends! Have you ever skied, Todd?” she asked, as I maliciously wondered how good she was at avoiding trees.
“Just once,” he replied. “It was fun, but we Californians prefer surfing. Mind you, I’ve heard the skiing in Vermont’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it is,” she said. “I go to Vermont every February. It’s really wonderful, and I also love heli-skiing in Canada—now that really is very exciting.”
“Very dangerous, too,” said Todd. Dangerous? Good.
“Yes, very,” she said. “Though of course you have a guide. But right now I’m really into sub-aqua—I’ve done a lot of scuba diving in the Mediterranean. I’ve just qualified as an instructor, actually.”
“Wow!” said Todd. His jaw was visibly slack; his tongue had practically hit the floor. “You Belgians are so adventurous,” he added. Frankly, that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. But then I’ve noticed that Americans do have this tendency to generalize about other nationalities. “So adventurous.” He was now shaking his head in open disbelief.
I, for one, was bored by this conversation, though, depressingly, Kate seemed to find Stella’s many accomplishments as mesmerizingly interesting as Todd. But I was fed up with the unbashful Belgian with the baby-blue eyes and the strawberry-blond hair and the big bank balance. I wish Seriously Successful were here, I thought to myself bitterly. He wouldn’t ignore me, he’d talk to me and tell me jokes and flirt and make me laugh. Maybe I would send him a postcard after all. But what on earth would it say?
“Wow! What a woman!” I heard Todd say. “All that and coconut throwing too!” I thought I was going to throw up.
“Did you say your boyfriend is the chairman of Débit Suisse?” I suddenly asked Stella. “Or the president? I can’t quite remember.”
“Oh he’s only the vice-president,” she replied with a girlish giggle, fingering the fashionable “commitment ring” on her perfectly manicured right hand. Todd shifted uneasily in his chair.
“But vice-president, that’s fantastic,” I said. “He must be really clever. Is he going to join you here?”
“Oh, no, he hasn’t got time. He’s in the middle of this deal which is worth, well, billions,” she said with an amused shrug of her slender shoulders. Todd was now looking distinctly crestfallen. And then suddenly, for the first time that evening, he looked at me properly. In fact, he was positively peering at me.
“You know, Tiffany, you’ve gone rather pink,” he said. “You’d better be careful in the sun.” Nice of you to care, I thought to myself bitterly. And then he added, in this quiet voice, “I’ve learnt that lesson the hard way because, well, actually, I’ve had
skin cancer.” Oh no.
“Well that’s very easy to cure,” I said quickly. “As long as it’s caught early, which yours obviously was.”
“Actually my surgeon keeps on having to chop bits off me,” he said with a grim little laugh. “I think I’ve put his kids through high school on the proceeds.”
“But skin cancer’s nothing these days,” said Kate, looking vaguely distraught. “It’s terribly common. Everyone in Australia’s got it. It’s really not a big deal. I wouldn’t worry.”
But then Stella said, “Oh no, that’s not true. It can be extremely difficult to cure. In fact I had a very dear friend and she got it, and she died of it.”
“Have you been throwing coconuts long?” I asked her.
“She got a tiny mole on her big toe,” she continued, “and, within six months—that was it. Curtains. It went through like wildfire.”
“Oh, look, there’s the sea!” said Kate.
“She suffered horribly,” said Stella. “It was really frightful. I was terribly upset.”
“Do you like the Bahamas?” I asked her, passing her a petit four whilst stealing a surreptitious glance at Todd, who had an expression of polite interest Superglued to his face.
“Yes, skin cancer’s the most terrible thing,” Stella concluded, shaking her head sadly. Then, what can only be called a deathly hush descended. “Well, I think I’ll go for a little late walk on the beach,” she said. “Do any of you want to join me?”
“Er, no thanks,” said Todd quickly, politely standing up as she pushed back her chair. “I’m all in,” he said. “Tiffany really took it out of me on the tennis court this morning.” Fortunately, my blush was concealed beneath the roseate glow of my incipient sunburn. Then, as we sat drinking our coffee, we heard, in the distance, the strains of “Dancing Queen.”
“Oh gosh, the disco’s just starting,” said Kate. “Are we going to go?”
“I’m going to hit the sack, actually,” said Todd. And then, as we left the restaurant he said, “Tiffany, would you give me a game of tennis tomorrow morning before the lesson? At about eight? I could really do with some practice.”
Now eight’s a little on the early side for me. In fact as far as I’m concerned eight A.M. is still the middle of the night. But, as Kate and I headed off toward the nightclub under a starlit sky, I said, “Yes, Todd. Eight a.m. would be just fine.”
By now it was ten-thirty, and the nightclub was already crowded—knots of Japanese honeymooners and infatuated Italians bobbed in a desultory way to the beat. It all looked a bit lackluster to be honest, and I’d made a mental decision not to stay, when suddenly Sebastian the tennis coach leapt onstage to the accompaniment of a fanfare and flashing lights.
“OK everyone,” he announced. “It’s Party Time! We’re going to do some proper dancing now—starting with the ‘YMCA’!!!!”
Young Man! . . .
“OK, you put your hands over your head like this—attenzione tutti quanti, mettete le mani in alto così; alors, haussez les mains dessus la tête; poned las manos sobre la cabeza; Händer über den Kopf, so; Opp med hendene slik; Konoyoni ryote wo ue ni agete kudasai.”
There’s no need to feel down, I said . . .
“Now drop your hands like this—ahora dejad caer las manos, de este modo; abaissez les mains, ainsi; adesso lasciate andare le mani verso il basso; jetzt lassen Sie ihre Händer fallen so; Ned med hendene slik; kondo wa konoyoni ryote wo oroshite kudasai.”
Young Man, get yourself off the ground, I said . . .
“Oh, God, Kate, I’m not doing this,” I said, “it’s silly.”
“Turn around everyone, in a circle, like this,” yelled Sebastian.
“Come on, Tiffany,” said Kate. “Do it.”
“No—I feel embarrassed.”
So many ways—to—have—a good time!
“Come on, you’re on holiday!”
“No way.”
YMCA!
“That’s it,” shouted Sebastian. “Make the letters with your hands everybody—faîtes les lettres avec les mains; fate le lettere con le mani in questo modo; formad las letras con vuestras manos; zeichnen Sie die Buchstaben mit den Händern so; Lag bokstavene med hendene slik; konoyoni ryote de moji wo tsukutte kudasai—YMCA!”
It’s fun to stay at the YMCA. It’s fun to stay at the YMCA-AY. They have ev-ery-thing for young men to enjoy. You can hang out with all the boys.
“Look, Kate, I just don’t want to do this kind of thing—it’s really not me.”
You can get yourself clean! You can have a good meal . . .
“Can’t we go now?”
You can do whatev-er you feel!
“Oh, God, I’ve had enough,” I reiterated under my breath. And then suddenly, the music changed to “La Bamba” and this divine-looking bloke grabbed me by the hand and started dancing with me.
“Hola!” he said, as he wiggled his snakelike hips to the Latin beat. “You wanna dance with me, baby?”
“Um—OK. Yes,” I said, and luckily I happened to have done a bit of salsa. Just three lessons actually, but enough to get the gist. One, two, three, step. One, two, three, step. What fun! This was more my thing, and he was so good-looking. A mop of dark, shiny hair, smoldering brown eyes, and that wonderful V-shaped torso which drives women wild.
“What your name you?” he breathed hoarsely into my left ear.
“Tiffany, Tiffany Trott.”
“Teeffanee. Very nice. You do salsa good, Teeffanee.”
“Gosh, thanks.”
“Me—José.”
“How do you do,” I said, “Spanish?”
“Brazeelian. I from São Paulo. Very beeeg ceeteee.” Very big.
By now I was really beginning to enjoy myself as we spun and shimmed around the floor but then—well, it was rather embarrassing really, because José suddenly leapt up onstage, pulled me up behind him, and began a Conga line—with me at the front! This was ridiculous—I mean this was seriously silly, though I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the feel of his manly hands around my waist.
Der da da da da da DAH!
I mean I don’t mind dancing as long as I know what I’m doing . . .
Der da da da da da DAH!
. . . but all this Conga business wasn’t my kind of thing at all.
. . . di di dee deee!
Whatever next—the hokey cokey?
. . . di dum dee da!
“Right, everybody form a large circle!” shouted Sebastian. “OK? Now—you put your left foot in . . .”
That was the point at which I decided to leave. Call me a spoilsport, but I went. I really felt I’d done my bit. Anyway, I was exhausted after my exertions on the beach, and I had an early rendezvous with Todd. But then the Brazilian . . . he was rather nice. Very nice, in fact. José. I wouldn’t mind seeing him again.
Oooooooohhh—the hokey cokey! I heard in the distance as I made my way slowly back to my room through the coconut grove.
Oooooooohhh—the hokey cokey . . . I mean, nothing wrong with Brazilians, I thought as I passed the beginners’ golf course. Brazilians are very attractive.
Oooooohhhhhh—the hokey cokey . . . They’re very family-minded too, of course—they’re known for their love of kids.
That’s what it’s all ABOUT!
“OK everybody,” said our tennis coach, François, at nine-thirty the next morning. “You made some very good progress today. Tomorrow, we’ll work on your volleying. Demain, le smash. Morgen, werden wir an Eurem Volley arbeiten; I morgen trener vi på volley ’en. Domani rivediamo il gioco aereo . . .”
“Excuse me, sir,” Todd interjected politely, “but we’re all English speakers, actually. I just thought I’d save you a little time here.”
“Oh. Oh. Well, sank you,” said François politely.
Then Todd and I made our way to the restaurant for breakfast in the already blistering heat. We spotted Stella at a distant table, but Todd didn’t seem interested in joining her. In fact he was being quite attentive to
ward me.
“Tiffany, you seem quite distracted this morning,” he said as we went up to the breakfast buffet. “Are you sure you’re OK?” he inquired as we sat down with our croissants and yogurt. “I sure hope you didn’t overdo it last night.”
“Oh, thanks, no, I’m fine,” I said, waving at Kate and hoping that José would turn up. José was a laugh. José was a bit of all right. And then right on cue—José arrived. He rushed up to our table, and gave me a kiss! My God. These Latin types. Delightfully spontaneous.
“Hi Teeffanee!” he said. “You tired? I give you hard time last night, no?” Todd suddenly looked uncomfortable.
“Er, no, it was um fun,” I said truthfully.
“But I make you go on too long, I think.”
“Oh, no, the length was just fine,” I said. “I could take it. Really.”
“No, I theeenk I make you do theeengs you deedn’t reeely wanna do. No?”
“Excuse me, I think I need another croissant,” said Todd, scraping back his chair.
“Er no, José. It was great fun. Are you going to be there again tonight?”
“Tonight? No. Not tonight. Tonight I on plane.”
“Plane? Oh. Oh, that’s a pity. You’re leaving. On a jet plane, ha ha ha!”
He didn’t laugh. He just said, “Yes. I leeving tonight. I bin here one week. I very sad.”
“Well we’re very sad,” I said sadly.
“Get his address,” Kate hissed.
“Well, I hope I’ll—we’ll—see you again, José. Here . . .” I scribbled on a paper napkin. “This is my address in London, and this is Kate’s. Do come and stay.”
“Oh grasias—yes I weel come and veesit you.” I waited for him to give me his address, but he just poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Can I have your address, José?” I said.
“Your dress? Yes, your dress is very nice,” he said. “Very nice.”
“No. I’d like your address. Where you live.”
“Yes, I leave. I leave today.”
“No. Your address. So I can visit you,” I said. “I’ve never been to Brazil. Can I come and visit you?”
