by Melissa Hill
“Guess what?” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “They run scuba-dive courses here.”
Tara couldn’t help but smile. “And?”
“And I’ve always wanted to try it – you know that.”
She shook her head indulgently. Glenn was an out-and-out water baby, and Tara had known it was only a matter of time before he realised that scuba courses were part of the hotel’s facilities. In fact, it was partly the reason she’d chosen this hotel in the first place; it would make the pain of dragging Glenn off to Cairo to see the pyramids some day next week that bit easier. After leaving her alone at the pool while he was off scuba diving and snorkelling, he couldn’t really complain about a simple day trip, could he?
“So try it then.”
Glenn’s eyes lit up. “Are you sure? I’ve had a look at the course and it seems pretty intensive – it’ll take a couple of days at least.”
“I know that, don’t worry about it.”
He looked doubtful. “You’re sure you don’t mind me leaving you on your own again? As I said, it could be a few days.”
“Of course not,” Tara assured him. “I’m fine here. You go on and enjoy yourself.”
He bent down and gave her a quick kiss – his delight almost palpable. “You’re the best, do you know that?”
Tara smiled. “I know.”
“OK, well, I’ll go and book my first lesson for this afternoon then,” he said, getting to his feet. “The sooner I get started, the sooner I can get out on the reef and start diving. I can’t wait to tell the lads at work about this – they’ll be green.”
“Find out first if you’re able for it before you start boasting about it,” Tara advised, although she knew well that Glenn would take to diving like the proverbial duck to – ahem – water, whereas normally she preferred not getting wet at all! Although in this heat, she didn’t have much of a choice but to dip into the pool now and then to cool off.
At times like this, Tara sorely wished she had the confidence to dive straight into the water like everyone else. Wading in bit by bit wasn’t half as refreshing, although she supposed it was better than nothing. Once again, she wished that she’d learned how to swim at a younger age, like Glenn had. It was like learning to drive; the older you became, the more fear you seemed to have. And given that Tara wasn’t the best driver in the first place, she wasn’t about to throw caution to the winds when it came to swimming.
So let Glenn get his scuba lessons; Tara was perfectly fine where she was. She’d stocked up on books at Dublin airport and was looking forward to getting through them. It had been years since she’d had the time to sit and read purely for pleasure, so she was going to make the most of it.
As Glenn once again took off down the stone steps towards the beach, probably not to be seen for the rest of the day, Tara picked up her book, repositioned her sunglasses on her nose and settled down again to some serious relaxation. But before she could manage to read a single sentence, she was interrupted once more.
“Excuse me – is this bed free?” a female voice asked.
Tara looked up to see a bikini-clad and hugely attractive girl with glossy dark-brown hair smiling hopefully at her.
“Is it free?” the girl repeated. “Or are you holding it for somebody?”
Tara felt guilty. There were no other beds available and it wasn’t fair of her to keep one for Glenn when it was unlikely he’d be using it today. And even if he did return to the pool later, Tara was sure he wouldn’t mind her giving his sun-lounger away. He certainly wouldn’t mind her giving it away to this stunner, she thought wryly, with her huge almond-shaped eyes, full lips and, Tara noted ruefully, even fuller bosom. Tara’s chest was as flat as day-old champagne and even Monsoon’s industrial strength padded bikinis couldn’t do a thing to change that. By comparison, this girl looked like she belonged in a Wonderbra advert.
“Yes, it’s free,” she said, moving Glenn’s things out of the way and giving the girl a friendly smile. “But there’s only one so –”
“You’re a doll, thank you!” the girl replied in a pronounced English accent. She put her towel on the sun bed and sat down gratefully on it. “One is all I need.”
“No problem.” Tara smiled and resumed her reading, but as the other girl settled herself alongside her, she couldn’t help notice how remarkably clear and tanned the English girl’s skin appeared in comparison to her own.
Not to mention how glamorous and confident she seemed, dressed in a fabulous red bikini that displayed her perfect curves and remarkably smooth, cellulite-free thighs to perfection – she guessed they were both around the same age, and while Tara was riddled with the stuff, this other girl’s skin was still baby-smooth. How was that fair? She had to be a model or something, Tara thought enviously, as the girl began applying sunscreen in a sensuous manner that would make even Peter Stringfellow blush. God, now she hoped Glenn did stay away for the afternoon. One look at this girl and he’d be frothing at the mouth!
“I’m so sorry to interrupt you again,” the girl said, startling Tara out of her envious reverie, “but would you mind spraying some sunscreen on the back of my shoulders? It’s a tricky area to get to and –”
“Of course not.” Tara swung her legs off the sun bed and took the bottle from the other girl, doubly glad that Glenn wasn’t there!
“Thanks. I normally wouldn’t ask, as I’d get my boyfriend to do it, but because I’m on my own for the week –”
“On your own – on holiday?” Tara blurted, before she could stop herself. She couldn’t conceive of the fact that this gorgeous creature was on holiday without a man equally as attractive. She knew some people liked to travel alone but . . .
The girl sighed and piled her wonderfully shiny chestnut hair on the top of her head before turning her back to Tara. “Yes, Steve was supposed to come with me but he cancelled at the last minute – while I was on my way to Heathrow, can you believe it? ‘I have to work, Natalie,’ he says. ‘Something important’s come up and I just can’t get away,’” she mimicked exaggeratedly as Tara sprayed sunscreen onto her shoulders. “Our very first holiday together, and he has to work!”
“That’s unfortunate.” The job complete, Tara handed her back the bottle and the two resettled themselves on their respective sun-loungers, Natalie lying on her stomach and exposing her newly protected back to the sun.
“Tell me about it,” she said, rolling her eyes, before chattily continuing to fill Tara in on the situation. “But I decided to come anyway. I haven’t had a break in yonks, and work has been crazy so I figured why waste the opportunity to get away and flop for a while?” She giggled. “Although I suppose there are some compensations. With Steve not here, at least I can just lounge around all day with no make-up on and not have to worry about trying to look effortlessly perfect every minute of the day.”
“Now, I don’t think you’d have to try too hard to do that,” Tara replied with a smile, having already decided that, despite her intimidating beauty, she already liked this girl. And it seemed they had a thing or two in common. Like Tara, this girl evidently had a hectic work life, as it was also her first holiday in ages, and today each had both been more or less abandoned by the men in their lives!
“So thanks very much for the sun bed,” the girl went on. “I’ve only just arrived, and it’s so busy down here I really thought I’d have to spend the day in my room – not that that’s too much of a problem: have you seen the size of the Jacuzzi bath? Oh, I’m Natalie by the way!” And she offered Tara a perfectly manicured hand.
“I’m Tara – nice to meet you,” she replied, trying to hide her own nail-bitten paw. “And yes, the bath is huge, although I haven’t tried it yet – despite the fact that we flew in last Wednesday.”
“From Ireland?”
Tara smiled and nodded. “The accent is obviously a giveaway.”
“Oh, I love the Irish accent,” Natalie declared, sitting up. “I worked with a girl from Dublin yonks ago, and we a
ll adored the funny little expressions she always used – ‘Jaysus’ and ‘God Almighty’ and all that.”
Tara bit back a smile. “Well, I’m from Dublin too.”
“Really? How fabulous! I’ve never been to Dublin, but I’ve heard it’s marvellous fun. Great shopping, apparently. But I expect you probably have much the same stores we have in London.”
Tara nodded. “We have some, and yes, Dublin can be good craic all right. What about you? You mentioned London – is that where you’re from?”
“Yep. Well, I was born in Hertfordshire, which isn’t far, then I moved to London when I was eighteen. I’ve hardly left the place since. Which, I suppose, is part of the reason I needed this holiday.” She sighed.
“And how long are you here for?” Tara asked.
“Just a week unfortunately. But this place is so fabulous, I could easily stay for a year – you?”
“Ten days, and I know what you mean. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“So are you here with your husband then?” the other girl enquired.
Tara shook her head. “Well, I’m not married but –”
“Me neither,” Natalie groaned, shaking her pretty head from side to side. “Something I had really hoped to get to work on changing this week,” she muttered under her breath.
Tara said nothing, although she was sorely tempted to pry some more into the state of Natalie’s relationship, which by the sounds of things didn’t appear to be going too well. Naturally curious and, she supposed, because of her profession, Tara was always greatly intrigued by other people’s personal lives and what made them tick.
And she was full of admiration for the girl going off on holiday on her own too, especially to such a far-flung destination. But that was London girls for you, wasn’t it – so confident and worldly. She chuckled inwardly. Despite herself she couldn’t help but compare Natalie’s wonderful self-assurance with Emma’s annoying listlessness. At times, her sister could be so lethargic that going as far as the corner shop on her own was an ordeal, let alone a country in the Middle East!
The two girls lay side by side in companionable silence for a while, Tara becoming nicely engrossed in her book and Natalie just as engrossed in her sunbathing. Then, before they knew it, it was time for lunch.
Tara, who had anticipated having to do everything alone for the day, decided it might be nice to have some company for lunch, and good company at that.
“Do you fancy getting a bite to eat over there?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the pool snack bar. “They do great sandwiches and pizza.”
“I’d love to!” Natalie grinned enthusiastically, before getting up and wrapping herself in a beautifully patterned and indecently short sarong that made the most of those fabulous cellulite-free legs. “In fact, while we’re at it,” she added with a wink, “we could always try something from the cocktail bar, what do you think?”
They walked together towards the snack bar.
“I’d love a cocktail,” Tara agreed, “but it’ll be a virgin one for me.”
“Oh, you don’t drink?”
“Nope,” Tara replied and she had to laugh at Natalie’s shocked expression. “Not exactly living up to the drunken Irish stereotype, am I?”
The other girl blanched. “Christ no! I mean – that’s not what I mean and – oh, I’m frightfully sorry – I really should just quit while I’m ahead.” The poor thing looked embarrassed and Tara felt for her. “I’m really sorry. I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not an alcoholic or anything,” Tara told her easily, as they sat down at a vacant table. She picked up the menu. “I’m just not mad about the taste of alcohol – or the effects, to be honest. I got drunk once in my life and, believe me, once was enough.”
“Bad hangover?”
Tara smiled. “Something like that.”
“Well, I know where you’re coming from! Although, unfortunately, it’s never stopped me from going back for more! But I do love a cocktail on holiday – so you don’t mind if I . . .?” she trailed off and almost apologetically indicated the menu.
“Of course not!” Tara insisted. “You work away.”
It was funny really, she thought, how people reacted to her teetotal ways. Most seemed to automatically assume Tara was an alcoholic and found it hard to come to terms with the fact that she just didn’t like drinking alcohol. And for a foreigner like Natalie, who, she supposed, probably associated the Irish with being rip-roaring drunks, no doubt it was doubly confusing!
“I’ll have a Mai Tai and a chicken sandwich,” Natalie told the Egyptian waiter, who was busily trying to avoid looking at Natalie’s magnificent bust, his religion and culture totally at odds with all this Western exhibitionism. But refreshingly, Tara thought, the girl seemed totally unaware of her beauty and the effect she was having on all the surrounding males.
“And I’ll have the virgin Poco Loco and a pizza,” Tara told him, throwing her usual healthy eating habits out the window. To hell with it, she was on holidays!
“Well,” her new friend said, when the waiter had taken both their orders and left, “thanks to you this holiday mightn’t turn out to be such a disaster after all!”
Chapter 7
Later that evening, Natalie sat alone in the hotel, still quite unable to believe that she was in this amazing place all alone. It was such a pity that Steve hadn’t been able to make it.
Such a pity because he’d sounded so eager when she’d first mentioned her grand plans for a holiday.
“Sounds good,” he’d said. “I could do with a break. Like I said, we’re in the middle of a huge deal at the moment, and it’s been hard going. After all this, I’d jump at the chance to get away.”
As a property developer, Steve didn’t have to keep nine to five office hours like everyone else and (unlike Natalie) could easily get away at the drop of a hat. This had been the main reason she’d been so confident about booking it at such short notice.
“So, I’ll let you know when would be a good time for me, and we’ll talk about it then, OK?” he told her.
Natalie gulped. This was obviously not the time to tell him that she’d already arranged the entire thing, first-class flights, five-star hotel, lock stock and barrel and that they were leaving in a few days’ time! But she’d been certain that Steve would be fine with it in the end. After all, what man wouldn’t want to be whisked away on a last-minute holiday by the woman in his life? All men loved an assertive woman, didn’t they?
So, later that week, she’d phoned Steve and excitedly left a message on his answering machine, informing him that she’d booked them a fabulous last-minute break in Egypt, and they’d be leaving first thing Saturday morning.
And by the end of that particular week, Natalie sorely needed a holiday herself.
It had easily been the toughest few days at work in living memory. Midweek, Michael Sharpe had been involved in a punch-up with his team-mate, not in a nightclub, but right on the football pitch in full view of the fifty thousand or so spectators at the match. He’d got in a strop because his team-mate, a younger and more inexperienced player, hadn’t passed the ball to him at a crucial stage, which Michael believed was an offence deserving of a punch in the eye. But it got worse. When the referee tried to intervene, Michael promptly spat in his face, earning himself an immediate red card and, Natalie reckoned, a three-match suspension for his troubles, if not more. Having just about managed to get the Sun story pulled earlier that week, she just couldn’t believe that Michael had got himself into more trouble so soon. Player altercations she could handle; spitting at referees was a different story altogether. Still, she’d had to do something to try and save face, and that evening she and Danni had stayed till all hours at the office and brainstormed until the two had eventually come up with something that would serve as a decent excuse as to why he’d lost the rag on the pitch.
“We could say that Clara had threatened to leave him unless he stopped
his boozing and wandering eye,” Danni suggested and Natalie wanted to hug her.
So, with a speed that would put the Schumachers to shame, they’d arranged an exclusive interview with the Mail on Sunday for the following afternoon, during which Michael carried off a truly Oscar-winning performance as a ravaged and tormented human being, terrified of losing his family.
“I don’t know what I’d do without Clara – she’s my rock,” he’d sniffed. “I couldn’t cope – I try not to bring my problems onto the pitch, but once I got out there, I just cracked. It was all too much for me.”
Natalie had to admit that the man was good; for the benefit of the photographer, he had even managed to produce real tears.
“My family mean everything to me!” he wailed. “If I don’t have them, all the medals and trophies in the world mean nothing.”
Clara had no more threatened to leave him than she had to give up shopping, but painting such a doleful picture of this talented player, haunted by demons and so upset over his family, meant that he at least gained sympathy from fans and, most importantly, from certain sections of the media. Everyone loved a tortured genius.
So, thanks to Danni and Natalie’s savvy bit of PR, come Sunday, Michael Sharpe would no doubt be once again restored to his position as England’s most adored and even-more-indulged footballer.
But by the weekend, Natalie had been feeling the effects of a full week’s troubleshooting and was only too ready for a relaxing week abroad.
However, in the meantime, and with all the hullabaloo with Michael, she hadn’t managed to get Steve on the phone, and instead she’d texted him the details of their flight and arranged to meet him at the airport. Obviously, he was trying to get this property deal tied up before they went, so much better to just let him get the job done and then they could both enjoy their time away. Then, on her way to Heathrow in the cab on Saturday morning, she’d sent him another text telling him she’d meet him outside WH Smiths in Terminal 2.
Almost immediately Steve phoned.
