‘Really? You never said he was a womaniser.’
‘He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing,’ she says bitterly. ‘And it’s so much worse that I have to see him all the time. Which is partly my own fault. I mean, I could leave if I really wanted to.’
‘What, quit your job?’
She hesitates. ‘But you know what? Part of me doesn’t want to. If I’m completely honest, part of me likes the temptation.’
I must look confused.
‘I know. Crazy, isn’t it? On the days when I’m spinning between work and nappy-changing with not a hell of a lot of fun in between, temptation reminds me of what life used to be like. Temptation reminds me what it was like to be sexy.’
‘Oh Jess. You are sexy – you’re hot stuff!’ I grin, trying to cheer her up. ‘You don’t need this mess you’re making for yourself to prove that, surely?’
She shrugs, but doesn’t look any more cheerful. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, Abs. And I stand by what I said: temptation has a lot going for it.’
Chapter 55
The average package holiday is a bittersweet experience for me and my kind. There’s the sun, sea, sand, alcohol and opportunity of a holiday fling. But there’s also the first trip to the beach.
It is then that the dumpy, pallid-skinned among us are forced to skulk to a lounger, peel off an elaborately proportioned kaftan and give our pitifully white, blubbery bodies their first taste of sunlight for more than eleven months. It’s traumatic enough without the inevitable presence of scores of lithe, olive-skinned beauties with stomachs like tea trays and bikini bottoms the size of a small rodent’s handkerchief.
In the days before Jess had kids, when she and I would go on holiday together, we’d have the same conversation every time: ‘These Italian/French/Spanish girls are gorgeous now, but all that sun and pasta/foie gras/paella does nothing for them once they hit thirty.’
At which point we’d gesture to a withered, large-boned crone who was dressed from head to toe in amorphous black, clearly an octogenarian and laden with approximately seventeen bags of bread.
Imagine, if you will, that average beach and those averagely glorious, young olive-skinned beauties. Now imagine the scene when some of those same beauties are also running enthusiasts – since there’s also a Spanish club at the same hotel.
‘What made me think this was a good idea?’ I mutter as Jess and I wander along the beach before a pre-dinner meeting with the holiday rep. ‘I can’t believe I seriously considered removing my clothing in front of Oliver when he’s got this lot to compare me with.’
Jess rolls her eyes. ‘You’re still obsessing about Oliver?’
‘You know I am. Why?’
She shrugs uncomfortably. ‘I’m not sure about you and him. It’s been so long and nothing’s happened.’ She stops. ‘Sorry. Forget I said anything.’
‘How can I?’ I point out as a tidal wave of paranoia engulfs me. ‘Do you think I’m punching above my weight with him?’
‘No! God, no!’ she leaps in. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why I said that. Ignore me. And of course you’re not punching above your weight. You look gorgeous.’
‘Jess, I’ve lost just over a stone, not ten. My legs are still short, my bum is still lardy and my skin is still milk-bottle white, except when I slap on false tan, when it acquires a tinge of tangerine.’
‘Rubbish. You look lovely. You always looked lovely and now you look even better. How’s your room anyway?’
‘Fabulous,’ I say truthfully, because the hotel is stunning. With a modern interior and a private beach, it’s all whitewashed walls, sun-drenched terraces and tennis courts. As we enter the lobby for the welcome drinks, I look up and see Oliver, leaning on the reception desk as he chats to the stunning, dark-haired attendant. The second he sees Jess and me, he turns and walk towards us.
‘Hello, you two,’ he says, kissing us both on the cheek. His lips linger on my skin, sending butterflies through my body and it strikes me – again – how much bolder he is compared with when we first met.
When he pulls back I study what he’s wearing: linen trousers, leather flip-flops and a plain white T-shirt that clings to his lithe torso i.e. he looks gorgeous. ‘The meeting’s over here,’ he continues. ‘I’m on my way now. Beautiful place, isn’t it?’ He turns to me and reveals a slow, sexy smile that causes a fluttery sensation to grip my insides.
The rest of the group are already in the bar, awaiting the welcome talk. About ten members of the club are on the trip, joining about the same number of other holidaymakers. We sit behind Geraldine, Tom and Mau – who are deep in conversation about the local wine. Mau appears to be an expert.
‘Isn’t this place fabulous?’ whispers Geraldine, spinning round. ‘Our room’s got a view right over the beach.’
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ agrees Jess.
‘Maybe it’ll inspire someone,’ she says, nodding her head towards Tom. ‘Though I’m more likely to get a proposal from one of the waiters.’
The sharp sound of clapping prompts the chatter to die down.
‘Hello, guys!’ The effervescent greeting is delivered by a diminutive woman in her mid-forties with parched wavy hair, men’s shorts and legs so tanned she’s clearly taken in enough sun to roast a ten-pound turkey. What she lacks in style, however, is thoroughly made up for in enthusiasm.
‘I’m Janice Gonzales and I’ll be your Sunny Runners holiday rep for the next four days. A very warm welcome!’
She pauses, as if expecting a round of applause.
‘Well,’ she continues, undeterred by the silence, ‘I hope you’ve all had a look around our beautiful hotel and a rest after your journey. Tonight’ll be a chance to relax, make friends and sample the culinary delights of the region. Don’t go too heavy on them though,’ she grins, ‘because tomorrow, we’ll be up and at ’em at eight for our first session!’
‘Whoopdeedoo,’ I whisper.
As Janice’s high-pitched spiel continues, and continues – way beyond most people’s tolerance levels – I find myself looking at Doctor Dishy’s feet. I am mesmerised by them. This might sound strange, but it’s a seminal moment. Normally I despise men’s feet. I mean despise them.
Even men who normally take pride in their appearance seem not to pay the flimsiest attention to their feet. It’s as if they’ve forgotten they’re there. I don’t know when it became socially acceptable to parade around with thick nails, hard skin and milky-white toes sprouting pubic-style hair, but I seriously wish it wasn’t.
Doctor Dishy’s feet though, are nothing less than perfect. They are the sort of feet you’d see modelling in a Next Directory: tanned, beautifully manicured without even a hint of flaky skin. It takes all my self-control not to leap across the aisle and kiss them.
‘So, everyone,’ Janice concludes, ‘by the end of this holiday, we at Sunny Runners hope you’ll be relaxed, charged and motivated enough to take your training to the next level at home. And if you don’t, then it’s tough . . . cos there are no refunds for lazy beggars! Ha ha ha!’
I flash a look at Jess, trying to catch her eye. But not for the first time since we left home, her mind appears to be on other things.
Chapter 56
Most of the group have an early night – including Doctor Dishy, to my infinite disappointment. I order a wake-up call at seven-fifteen the next morning, but still manage to be late when I meet the others at the promenade.
Mau is dressed in top-to-toe ice-cream colours and looks like a walking Neapolitan wafer. ‘I thought you’d never make it,’ she grins, jogging on the spot.
‘Sorry, but the only wake-up call I’ve had on holiday before was when I had to catch a plane. It goes against my principles.’ I scan my surroundings and register that someone’s missing. ‘Where’s Jess?’
‘Assumed she was with you, love,’ shrugs Mau.
‘No. Well, that makes me feel better already. If even Miss Sportypants turns up late on day one, there’s hope for us all.’
As Janice instructs the slow group to follow her, I spot Jess running to the middle group.
‘You okay?’ I mouth.
‘Fine,’ she nods, as she heads in the other direction.
The run takes us along the coast, past golden beaches, dramatic rock formations and crashing waves. It isn’t even nine o’clock but the sun is already warming my shoulders – and it’s impossible not to enjoy it. The scenery’s breathtaking and the group is relaxed and happy.
When we return to the hotel, I feel a real sense of achievement. This is day one of a holiday, it’s not even ten o’clock and, instead of loitering at the buffet deciding between a second croissant or one of those ambiguous cold meats that the Dutch seem to like, I’ve been exercising.
After a shower, I meet Jess by the pool, pull up a sun-lounger and spread out my towel. As I remove my sarong, it strikes me that this grand bodily unveiling isn’t as traumatic as usual. Okay, so the lithe bronzed bunch on the other side of the pool still haven’t got much competition, but I feel . . . passable. Maybe beyond passable. Hell, I feel pretty bloody good – and am not afraid to say it.
A trace of cellulite remains, but a lot less than before. My stomach isn’t flat exactly, but it’s as close as it’ll ever be. And some of my muscles – my calves in particular – are rock hard. Of course, if you’d asked me six months ago which area of my body I’d most like to improve, I can’t claim my calves would’ve been top of my priorities. I’d put them about twenty-second, just before earlobes. But beggars can’t be choosers.
The point is, I feel stronger, slimmer and, most astonishingly, sporty. Which is ridiculous – this is me we’re talking about!
Jess and I read the books we bought at the airport, comparing notes every so often as we soak up the sun. After an hour or so I find myself drifting off. I have no idea how long I’m asleep, but wake to the sound of footsteps. I prise open an eye and am confronted by the feet of my dreams.
‘Mind if I join you?’ asks Oliver.
‘Not at all,’ I reply, flipping on to my back. I realise halfway through the procedure that this might be a mistake. The entire right-hand side of my body is a fresco of miniature pineapples, courtesy of the impression from my towel.
‘Oh dear,’ I grin self consciously, covering my legs.
He smiles as Jess rouses from her slumber. ‘Oh,’ she says when she realises we have company. ‘Hi, Oliver. I’m going for a dip.’ I make a mental note to thank her later for leaving us alone.
‘How was your run this morning?’ Oliver pulls up a lounger.
Despite my increased body confidence, I endeavour to breathe in as far as I possibly can without losing the ability to speak. ‘Wonderful. I feel set up for the day. I never thought I’d say that.’
‘Ah. Our reluctant half-marathon runner,’ he adds teasingly.
‘Not that reluctant these days,’ I correct him. ‘I’m starting to think I might enjoy this running lark.’
‘It’s addictive, isn’t it?’
‘Kind of. If only I wasn’t addicted to wine and chocolate too, I’d be brilliant.’
‘Well, you’re allowed to indulge on holiday. I know I’m hoping for a significantly later evening tonight than last night.’ He grins.
‘Are you?’
‘Definitely.’ Then he does the most astonishing thing: he winks. Doctor Dishy actually winks at me. I don’t quite know how to respond, except to giggle spontaneously, completely blowing my attempts at sucking in my stomach.
The rest of the day is a lazy, hazy, sublime mixture of chatting, sunbathing – and flirting.
It’s as if Oliver has finally discovered how to do it – and now there’s no stopping him. He brushes hair away from my face. He meets my eyes constantly. At one point, he even offers to rub sun cream in my back, an experience so pleasurable I come close to losing consciousness.
As the sun starts to fall, his come-ons become so obvious, so outrageous, that as I head to my room to prepare for dinner, I am utterly convinced: tonight is the night.
I dress for dinner in cotton trousers and an ethnic top, and am in the process of pinning up my hair when there’s a knock on my door. It’s Jess.
‘Thanks for the timely departure today,’ I say. ‘Seriously, it was perfect. Oliver has spent the entire day coming on to me. This is it, Jess. He and I will get it on tonight. I know it.’
Then I take in her appearance and realise she’s dressed in jeans and a hooded top i.e. not her usual dinner attire.
‘I’ve decided to go home,’ she tells me quietly.
My eyes widen in disbelief. ‘What?’ I ask. ‘Why? Where did this come from?’
Her face is filled with sorrow as she sits on my bed. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what you said on the plane about Adam.’
‘I didn’t mean you should go home,’ I argue.
‘I know – but you were right about him. Completely right.’ She puts her head in her hands. ‘God, look at me: gallivanting in the sun while my devoted husband looks after our two kids.’
‘I never said that! I just said you shouldn’t leave him. Not that you’re not allowed a holiday. Adam wouldn’t object to you being here.’
‘I object to me being here.’ She twiddles her key card and looks up. ‘There’s a plane later tonight.’
I sit on the edge of the bed and put my arm round her. ‘Bloody hell. One minute you’re telling me you want temptation and diamonds, the next you want to hop on a plane back to your husband. This isn’t like you, Jess. Why don’t you stay here and think? It’s an opportunity for some breathing space. For you to get away from it all and work things out.’
‘This isn’t away from it all.’
‘What do you mean?’
She sighs. ‘I’m in turmoil wherever I am – here or home. Besides, I’ve done nothing but think since we arrived.’
‘And your conclusion?’
‘That I’ve been an idiot. And I want to go back home to my husband.’
Chapter 57
‘She left? Just like that?’ asks Geraldine when I bump into her and Mau in the Ladies before dinner.
‘Something came up with Jamie, her little boy,’ I fib. ‘Plus, he started school in September and he hasn’t entirely settled yet. She feels bad not being there for him.’
‘Jess never struck me as a fussy mother,’ says Mau. ‘She’s always been admirably level-headed. Must be serious.’
‘I hope he’s all right,’ adds Geraldine.
‘He’ll be fine,’ I reply, wishing they’d drop it. ‘It wasn’t an emergency or anything.’
I head out to join the rest of the group and am almost at the dining room when I look down and realise I’ve left my lipstick in the Ladies.
I push open the outer door and am about to step back into the room, when I hear Mau’s voice sounding urgent and worried. Something about it makes me stop and listen.
‘Geraldine, you can’t,’ she scolds. ‘You absolutely can’t. I know how desperate you are, but it’s not fair. Besides that, things don’t work like that these days. Men no longer agree to marry women just because they get pregnant.’
‘Tom would,’ Geraldine replies sulkily.
I want to back out quietly but am aware that if I open the door again, it will creak and they’ll hear me.
‘Listen to me,’ Mau says. ‘This is the sort of thing women used to do in my day and all it set them up for was an unhappy marriage and miserable children. If you and Tom are meant to be, then it will happen. You cannot blackmail him with your blinking ovaries.’
‘Let me tell you something, Mau. I am thirty-three years old and I need a baby. Tom and I would make wonderful parents – he just doesn’t realise it yet. But if a baby came along, I know how he’d feel. He’d be smitten. It’d be perfect. It’d be exactly the happy ending both of us wanted. You’ve got to understand.’ Geraldine’s voice dissolves at the end of the sentence and I realise she’s crying.
‘Listen, luvvie,’ says Mau softly
as Geraldine sniffs. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything daft. You can’t use a baby to hold the man you love to ransom.’ She pauses. ‘Do you love him?’
‘Of course!’ Geraldine squeals. ‘How can you doubt that?’
Mau doesn’t answer. Instead, as she turns on the tap to wash her hands, I use the opportunity to back out of the door and into the night, without my lipstick. And for the first time since I met them, I wonder if Geraldine and Tom were made for each other, after all.
We sit on a terrace floodlit by a full moon as my skin tingles in the breeze. Most of the group’s members look as though they’ve caught some sun today: including me, though my colour is courtesy of a deliriously expensive fake-bronzing lotion called Miami Tan. Apparently, all the celebs are using it, though presumably in conjunction with several trips a month to Barbados, because it isn’t quite as effective as I’d hoped. At least not compared with Mau, even with the numerous top-ups before dinner.
I am supposed to abstain from drink this evening. Not because I am a member of AA, or pregnant, or convalescing from a yeast infection and on strong antibiotics, but because of our longer-than-usual run tomorrow – a fact that reignites my prejudice against the term ‘running holiday’. It’s not that drink is banned exactly. But nobody – except Tom, who’s defiantly had two beers – is indulging.
Still, I don’t dwell on it because I have other things to dwell on – namely, Doctor Dishy. If, after spending all day and evening flirting with me, he doesn’t finally deliver the goods and make a pass, I might be joining Jess on the next flight home. One by one, the group retires early to bed, until there’s just me, Oliver and Tom, who has decided to have a third beer.
When I look at Tom tonight, it’s easy to see how I could have fooled myself, temporarily at least, into thinking I had feelings for him. His undeniable gorgeousness is all the more evident tonight – with burnished skin on his forearms and a hint of freckles on the bridge of his nose.
Girl on the Run Page 23
