by Mina Ford
Our welcome meeting does very little to raise our hopes further. Dee (the orange-calved rep) welcomes us once again to our Top Wank holiday with a plastic cupful of watered down Sangria and shakes us all by the hand.
Is it my imagination, or does she look as though she’s offering us her condolences?
She goes on to advise us not to drink the water, because, although it isn’t harmful, it is full of minerals and tastes of rotten eggs. She also warns us that some of the beaches dotted around are full of naturalists, although I think she means naturists. And then she explains that the reason the resort is almost completely greenery-free and therefore looks as barren as Elizabeth I is that the Canary Islands only get six inches of rain a year. Luckily for us, most of this is forecast for the next few days.
As this news sinks in, she then cheerfully informs us that, as this particular resort is miles from anywhere and there’s very little to do here, especially when it rains, it would make a lot of sense to pay a small fortune for the privilege of joining groups of noisy families in loud beachwear on some of the organised trips to places of not so local interest.
‘Any questions?’ she asks finally.
‘Yes,’ bellows George. ‘Would you think it rude of me if I asked you to stop talking now?’
‘Is this a joke?’ someone else asks hopefully.
‘Do we get complimentary Prozac?’ Janice asks.
‘Would you consider changing the description of this holiday in your brochure?’ asks George.
‘To what?’ Dee is confused.
‘A Helliday.’
As it turns out, this is no joke. We’re not the unwitting victims of Candid Camera or Beadle’s About or any other light entertainment show for that matter. And, as we toddle off to explore our surroundings, we soon realise that ‘hell’ is a pretty good description of our position. The resort is a pleasure-free zone. Slap bang outside our complex there’s a building site the size of a small country. And we don’t have hard hats. I jump as a crane with a rusty bath attached to it swings high above our heads. Janice bursts into tears as her Jimmy Choo scuffs against the head of an abandoned doll, its eyes rolled back into its hairless head and its knickerless, genital-free bum twisted at an awkward angle to the rest of its body.
‘Sorry,’ she squeaks. ‘It’s the hormones.’
‘It’s OK.’ We all rush to comfort her.
Nevertheless, I take it as a bad omen.
The only places to eat are downmarket Chinese restaurants or sports bars, and everything comes with chips and mushy peas. By the end of the day we still haven’t seen a fresh vegetable or a Spanish person and I’m so hungry I’ve eaten a whole packet of Rennies.
The resort bar isn’t much better. Crowded with noisy families, you’d have been forgiven for thinking someone was staging a Westlife concert.
‘Let’s just try to have a nice time.’ Sam puts a protective hand on the small of my back and I try to ignore the delicious shiver which runs the length of my spine. God. I have to get a grip.
‘This is Katie’s hen weekend,’ he reminds everyone. ‘She deserves to have fun when you think about what she’s giving up for you, George.’
‘Okay,’ huffs George.
‘Thanks, Katie,’ David, rushes. ‘We do appreciate it, you know.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘And I’m fine with it. Really.’
And I am fine with it. Although, obviously, I’m also absolutely shitting myself.
Sam goes to the bar.
‘San Miguels all round, please,’ he says firmly. Even Janice has to have a quick drink to overcome her disappointment in finding herself in a shopping precinct instead of a tropical paradise.
‘All English beer ’ere,’ the barmaid informs us proudly. ‘Yous can ’ave ’Eineken, Stripe or Stella.’
‘Stella’s not…’ I begin, but George shushes me.
‘Forget it,’ he snipes. ‘Her idea of going Continental is changing her fags.’
We spend the evening drinking beer and playing cards until Janice rubs her back and says she’s tired. So we all troop back to the apartment together to see her safely back. After all, as George points out, this might be a holiday resort but it’s probably just as dangerous as any London ghetto.
Then we all get shitfaced.
Sam is strangely quiet as David and George produce bottles of melon liqueur and champagne and introduce drinking games into the equation. When we get up to our room, Sam produces two vodka miniatures, hands one to me and pats the bed beside him.
‘I owe you an apology, Simpson.’
‘What for?’
‘Pussy.’ He opens a tonic can.
‘What about Pussy?’
He sighs. ‘There isn’t going to be a wedding.’
A surge of hope fills my chest. I try to quash it, telling myself that of course this isn’t because of me. There’s another reason the wedding’s off.
‘Why?’ I stammer.
Sam draws a deep breath, hoofs back the vodka in one go and starts to tell me.
It turns out that, just before I arrived at his house to get the food ready for his party, Pussy dropped a bit of a bomb-shell. She told Sam she was having a baby. That she’d suspected for a while but that now it was confirmed. Her friend, a doctor, had done a test, and it was positive. And it was his.
‘What could I do?’ He shrugs, frowning. ‘I couldn’t abandon her, could I? It would be wrong. Although I didn’t exactly want a baby. Not with her.’
‘Oh?’
‘I knew it was never going to be serious between us, but I just thought, well, if I can’t have the woman I love, I’ll have the one who loves me.’
‘Oh.’
He looks so adorably confused that it’s all I can do not to ask, ‘So who is the woman you love?’ But I manage to stop myself. Because every nerve in my body is screaming ‘Let it be me’ and I know that’s not true. It’s probably Cindy Crawford. So I say nothing.
‘And then Dad and Mary announced they were getting married, which, yes, I did know about before you, and I’m sorry for not telling you but I thought you should hear it from them,’ he gabbles, ‘and then she came out with that announcement about us, well, I was more surprised than anyone.’ He frowns. ‘But I couldn’t humiliate her in public, could I? How could I say I didn’t have the first clue about it? Not with her having my baby and everything. I had to stand by her. So I just went along with it.’
I feel a huge surge of affection for him. He’s so reasonable.
‘So why change your mind?’ I say. ‘What happened?’
‘She made it all up,’ he says.
‘What? About wanting to marry you?’
‘No,’ he shakes his head, ‘about the baby. There was no baby. Never had been. She just wanted to get me up the aisle, so she said she was pregnant.’
‘No way.’
‘Way.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘I happened to mention the whole thing to the doctor friend a few days later. And she said that, although patient advice was confidential, she thought I ought to be aware that she’d never given any advice. She had no clue about any baby. She was as dumbstruck as I was. So I confronted Pussy. And she confessed.’
‘Did she cry?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
Oh, Simpson.’ Sam suddenly looks up and smiles at me.
‘What?’
‘I just remembered why I love you to bits.’
‘To bits.’ That’s the operative word, isn’t it? It’s the difference between ‘I love you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you’ and ‘I love you, you’re a mate’. But Sam pulls me to him and hugs me anyway and we go to sleep, curled together like spoons in the big double bed.
When I wake up next day, he’s gone. There’s a note on the table.
‘Gone to get breakfast.’
I open the shutters excitedly, looking forward to a day of sun-bathing. I’m disappointed. It’s cold, grey and lashing
down with rain. I can’t help feeling depressed. The six inches of rain the Canarians get on average per year are clearly all arriving today. I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and go outside. In the rain, the resort is even more depressing than before. And with no sign of Sam, I feel empty inside. I can’t wait to go home.
In the resort bar, all the other guests are watching UK Gold and eating crisps. I turn on my heel and start to walk out when I spot George, teetering along by the edge of the swimming pool.
‘All right?’
‘No,’ he tuts. ‘I’m somewhat concerned about the amount of gold jewellery around. And look at the ruddy food. God, I’d do anything for a sundried tomato.’
I glance quickly around. He’s right. The people here are—let’s just say they’re different. Vermilion-faced girls from Blackburn who are ‘Out looking for mischief’, and a large, fifty-year-old woman from Sunderland who, in a clingy orange dress made from waffle material and a tiny pair of matching plastic shoes with little pointy heels, looks not unlike an upside down space hopper.
‘God,’ George says again. ‘It’s like a miniature Mosside.’
‘Stop it,’ I say, trying not to laugh. At least he’s cheering me up.
‘It’s true. The people here have probably all brought boxes of Shreddies with them because they can’t eat foreign muck.’
I’m saved from replying by Sam, who saunters jauntily into the bar, a huge bag of fresh bread rolls swinging from one arm and a smug look on his face.
‘What have you done?’ I ask.
‘Come back to the apartment and I’ll tell you.’ He grabs my hand. ‘You too, George. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
Over the crusty rolls with butter and apricot jam, Sam tells us all that’s he’s had us transferred to a hotel across the other side of the town.
‘What’s it like?’ George looks dubious.
‘Oh, come on.’ Janice, still in her towelling robe, looks at him. ‘It can’t be any worse than this dump.’
‘Pack your stuff and come and see.’ Sam smiles at me. ‘It’s my treat.’
‘You mean you’ve paid for it?’ I ask. ‘Oh Sam, you can’t—’
‘Yes I can. Come on, Simpson.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘This is your holiday. You’re doing something really unselfish here. You deserve to have a nice time.’
‘Oh, Sam.’ I smile at him. ‘Thanks.’
‘Any time,’ he says. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
Everyone jumps up. Apart from me, that is. Despite myself, I can’t seem to move. I’m just looking at Sam, gorgeous in a pair of faded jeans and no top. And I want to hug him. I’ve never felt like this before. My tummy is flipping like a fish and I don’t know what the hell is going on.
All I do know is that there’s more to it than just fancying him.
Bugger.
I can’t be in love with him.
Can I?
Luckily, I’m saved from further thought on the subject by Janice, who suddenly shrieks like a banshee.
‘Ohmigod.’
‘Diddit kick?’ We all rush to touch her tummy.
‘No.’ She pushes us away. ‘Gerroff. It’s way too early for that. I just thought. What if I get a fat one? A horrible fat kid. I’ll have to put it on a diet and it’ll be traumatised for life.’
‘It won’t be fat,’ I reassure her.
‘It might mind being called “it” though,’ Sam points out. ‘Anyway, you’ll love it whatever it looks like. Won’t she, Katie?’
‘How the fuck would I know?’ I ask.
He looks sad suddenly and I feel guilty. He’s probably thinking about the baby he thought he was having a couple of weeks ago. Shit. Perhaps he really wanted it after all. Oh God. Have I made him feel worse?
Luckily we’re all distracted by George.
‘Ooooh,’ he yells suddenly, rushing to the balcony. ‘David, look. There in the leopard-print thong. Out in the rain and all. Pass the bollockspotters.’
David hands George their communal binoculars so he can ogle a piece of prime male meat as it struts towards the pool bar.
‘Nice bod.’ George hands them back.
‘Looks a bit German to me,’ Janice declares.
‘You sure?’ I pick up the binoculars myself. ‘How many loungers has he bagged?’
We all burst into gales of giggles then rush to pack our stuff before Sam changes his mind about the nice hotel. None of us wants to stay here another minute. The poolside bingo is about to start and that might just send George over the edge. When we’re ready, we go to find Dee. She’s sitting in a corner of the dingy bar, a pint of lager in front of her.
‘Drinking on the job?’ I ask her. I feel a bit sorry for her. We’re escaping. Imagine actually having to live here.
It doesn’t bear thinking about.
‘We’re leaving,’ I say, trying to be as polite as I can.
Dee shrugs, glancing around the bar area at the other tourists, with their screaming brats, their Superkings and their white raffia wedge heels. She doesn’t blame us, she says. She’s out of here once her contract’s up. She’s only doing maternity leave. The girl who covered this patch before her got knocked up by one of the locals six months ago and has gone home to give birth in a proper hospital.
“Ere mind, it was even worse where I was before. I was in Zákinthos, see,’ she explains. ‘You couldn’t get pwoper English food for love nor money out there. It was all tawamasalata and that Gweek shit. Here, at least you don’t have to go near a paella if you don’t want to. And they do a lovely omelette and chips in the hotel down the road. And the local lads don’t expect to kick the back door in every time you have sex with them.’
‘She means take it up the arse.’ George, coming up behind me with our bags, just catches the end of what she’s saying. ‘Up the stout and bitt—’
‘Yes, thank you, George, I know what she means,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t think that’s going to apply to me actually,’ I tell Dee. ‘I’ve seen some of the locals and I don’t think I’ll be taking it in either orifice from any of them. But thanks for the advice.’
We get two taxis to the hotel. George and David go with Sam, and Janice and I follow with all the bags. Janice pats my knee affectionately.
‘You OK?’ I ask her.
‘Mmmm. Tired,’ she says. Then, ‘Katie, why don’t you just tell him?’
‘Tell who?’
‘Sam, you ninny. Tell him how you feel before it’s too late.’
‘I don’t feel anything,’ I lie.
‘Bollocks,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at him.’
‘I can’t,’ I stutter. ‘What if he doesn’t feel the same?’
‘Don’t be daft.’ She hugs me. I’m shaking. ‘I’ve also seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one else is looking. Has done for ages. And he’s paying for this nice hotel, isn’t he? You surely don’t think that’s for my benefit, do you? Or George’s? Or David’s?’
I shrug. ‘Dunno.’
‘You do love him though, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I say in a small voice that surprises even me. ‘I suppose I do.’
‘Then tell him.’ She shakes my shoulders firmly. ‘Before it’s too late. Oh, and Katie.’
‘What?’ ‘He’s got a dick like a novelty draught-excluder, by all accounts.’
‘How do you know?’
‘That Paella told me that night we all got pissed on Pernod. Says he’s hung like a bloody horse.’
At that we burst out giggling. Two minutes later, we pull up outside the hotel and I take a sharp breath.
It’s gorgeous. It’s even got a garden. The first green I’ve seen since we came out here. Except for the colour of Sam’s face as we flew out. I guess the beautiful lawn is probably due to sprinklers and huge water wastage but who cares. It’s so pretty.
Inside, it’s just the same. Every room has its own bathroom, each the size of a small gymnasium and filled with piles of fluffy whi
te towels and huge bottles of expensive bath oils and lotions and potions. George and David share one room, while Janice has her own. Again. Sam looks at me.
‘I thought we could share again. If that’s OK with you.’
‘Sure.’ I shrug. ‘It’ll save money, won’t it? Ow,’ I yelp, as Janice kicks my ankle.
That night, all much more relaxed, we eat dinner under the stars, which have finally come out now the rain has stopped. At eleven thirty, Janice goes to bed, giving me another ginormous kick under the table. At twelve, after two more ports each, George and David say it’s time to hit the sack too. Sam and I are left alone.
And I’m completely tongue-tied. But I have to tell him how I feel. Janice is right. If I don’t, it might be too late. And I only have tonight and tomorrow night before we have to go home. And back in London, with the pressures of work and the horrible weather, it just won’t be the same.
When we get back to our room, Sam takes both my hands, pulls me to my feet and gives me an enormous bear hug.
‘Do you like your surprise?’
‘I love it,’ I say truthfully, almost adding, ‘If only it could include bonking you.’
I do love it. Our room has French windows, leading out to our very own deck. A jacuzzi bubbles away outside, and beside it are two steamer chairs covered in clouds of fluffy white towels. The complimentary bottles of citrussy bubble bath and lavender water in my marble bathroom are litre, rather than trial sized. As are the bottles of gin and vodka on the sideboard.
Plus, the fridge is stuffed with Belgian chocolates and Veuve Cliquot champagne.
Heaven.
I could get very used to this.
‘You deserve a bit of luxury.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m glad you like it.’ I hug him.
‘Consider it a wedding present,’ he chuckles.
We luxuriate in the hot tub for a while, enjoying the warmer air and drinking the bottle of bubbly we find in the fridge (the label round the neck says ‘Congratulations on your honeymoon’, but we decide to drink it anyway). I find it almost impossible to be so close to him without telling him how I feel. But I just daren’t. What if I have to face rejection?
But our legs are so close together, almost touching, that it’s torture not to reach out and touch his thigh, which is already tanned a deep Mediterranean brown from goodness knows when. Next to him, I feel as British as beef dripping.
