It’s a fire alarm. Probably a drill . . .
I consider this for a moment, certain that it’ll go off soon, like the ones that always go off in work: every staff member on the payroll trudges outside only to find out that all that’s caused it is the office pisshead returning from a long lunch and falling through a fire door.
I calmly start to wash off the shampoo, willing the noise to go off. Because I’m not going outside like this. Not a chance. Besides, there’s no way a building this sophisticated would have a fire. Surely—
But the longer I massage suds out of my hair, the more time I have for reflection. The vivid recollection of the article I scanned on the Internet this morning assails me: I imagine all those poor people tapping away at their keyboards, convinced the wailing sirens were a drill, while the floors below smouldered like the seventh circle of hell.
Maybe that’s happening right now! Anything could be going on out there as I stand here attempting to massage high-end shampoo out of my roots with a single hand. My anxiety levels mount further.
‘Oh, come on – just go off!’ I plead to no one in particular as I set about working out the position of the kitchen in this building. I’m not saying I’d rival anyone on CSI, but I quickly deduce that it’s perfectly feasible that, only minutes ago, an inexperienced chef’s Gambas Pil Pil ignited on the bottom of a frying pan and the resulting flames are now sweeping through the entire building.
The alarm continues. ‘PLEASE STOP! PLEASE—’
It doesn’t stop.
I am engulfed by a feeling that I have to get out of here, or else I will be in hideous, mortal danger.
I turn off the shower and grab a towel, scanning the room for the bathrobe. It’s nowhere. I head to my pile of washing and start rifling through it – as I hear feet running outside the room. God Almighty, I’m facing imminent death but all I can do is flick through my dirty knickers! I need to get out of here!
I wrap the towel around my dripping body and race out of the door.
Nobody’s there – the only thing I’m greeted by is the now-deafening din of the alarm. I belt towards the stairs, squinting through the suds working their way into my retinas, unconcerned that the only thing covering my modesty is a bath towel. Who cares if my bum’s on show when my life is at stake?
Half blinded by the shampoo, I race out of the hotel panting like an asthmatic porn star as I slip into a large crowd of people . . . at the exact moment as the alarm rings off.
I glance around. Nobody else is wearing only a bath towel, Tesco bag and enough shampoo to beautify an 18-hand racehorse. My eyes scan the vicinity for the girls, but they’re nowhere to be seen – and neither, to my relief, is Harry.
‘Hello!’
I look up and see my Italian friend. Having run away from him twice already I don’t feel I ought to do it again.
‘Hello to you too,’ I reply, painfully conscious of my lack of attire. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about disappearing quickly, it’s just . . . is everything okay?’
He is looking me up and down, taking in my appearance, and clearly confirming that I am, as he suspected, quite unhinged.
‘Everything okay yes!’ he says.
‘Did you have anything nice planned today?’ I add politely.
He nods. ‘No problem!’ he replies, as he backs away, spins round, and rapidly disappears.
A hotel official comes out and tells us apologetically that it’s all simply a false alarm and we can return to our rooms. Nobody sprints up the stairs faster than I do – I cover about five stairs per stride at one point – and relief overwhelms me as I go to push open our hotel room door.
It is a momentary sensation. The door is stuck fast. I’ve left the key card inside.
‘SHIT!’
‘Is everything all right?’
I recognise Harry’s voice before I spin round and look at him. ‘What are you doing on this floor?’ I ask in a panicked squeak.
‘I came to see how you’re doing after what happened in Las Ramblas. I’m sorry we got separated.’
‘Oh . . . that’s okay. Well, I didn’t manage to retrieve the necklace, sadly.’
Harry is staring at me, aghast. ‘What happened to your arm?’
I glance at my Tesco bag. ‘They were two for the price of one.’
He laughs. ‘Seriously, are you okay?’
‘I broke it.’ I shrug. ‘I spent the whole day – we spent the whole day – in hospital.’
‘You’re kidding? I’m so sorry.’ Harry looks at me, mortified.
‘I need to go and speak to Reception and get them to open the door,’ I mutter, suddenly needing to end this conversation. Despite the fact that Harry’s seen every inch of me naked, I’ve never felt more exposed – both by the shortness of this bath towel and by the feelings stirring inside me just by being around him.
‘Stay here – I’ll go,’ he insists.
I’m about to protest when I realise that I’m not in a position to. The prospect of going downstairs isn’t one I relish.
Harry disappears down the stairs and returns a few minutes later with a woman in hotel uniform, who lets me into the room. When she’s gone, he looks at me. ‘Are you around tonight?’ he asks, simply.
It sounds like a straightforward question. But it isn’t. Of course it isn’t. ‘Yes. Possibly. I don’t know.’
He hesitates. ‘O-kay. Well, I should be, at least before dinner. Maybe we could meet?’
I hesitate. ‘I’m not sure what time I’ll be around. I don’t know what our plans are,’ I say noncommittally.
He scans my face, clearly wondering how to play this given my lack of inclination to set a specific time. ‘Perhaps we’ll say we might just bump into each other in the bar downstairs, then?’
I nod. He smiles.
‘Bye, then,’ I mumble.
‘Bye,’ he replies.
As I close the room door behind me, I wonder when my brain will stop hurting so much.
Chapter 46
The second the door closes I begin to feel a bit ill. About the fact that I am thinking about – to bring this down to the unseemly, brass-tacks truth – sex. I am literally tingling with desire. Which, in equal parts, makes me feel amazing and dreadful.
Back in the shower, I switch it onto its coldest setting and, by the time I’ve emerged, I’ve not only managed to shake the sexy feeling, but have made sure there is only one man on my mind, and that’s Roberto.
I locate my soaked bath towel and attempt to dry my hair as I contemplate everything that’s happened here in Spain. With my job, yes, but most importantly, myself.
There have been many times over the last five years when I’ve thought about when the time would be right to ‘move on’, but it’s not something you can sit back and dispassionately define. Instead it is, I strongly suspect, something that simply happens, a process over which you have little or no control.
I say ‘strongly suspect’ because although the physical feelings I’m having for Harry represent the first time I’ve experienced this about another man since Roberto, they’re not making me feel like it’s time to get myself a boyfriend. They’re simply making me feel guilty. Disloyal. And unworthy of a love that I always vowed would last for ever.
I sit at the desk in the room and take out a pen and paper.
Amore mio . . .
The simple process of beginning to write makes me feel like I’ve made a connection, and I submit to the fantasy that he’s still here, in my life. In real life.
It’s been a strange holiday. And not just because I’ve broken my arm, been mugged, thrown out of a VIP party (almost), lumbered with a black eye – oh, and lost my job after one of the worst appearances on national radio in broadcasting history.
It’s also because it’s prompted me to think hard about us. I know that, technically, there is no ‘us’ any more. I simply mean that being away, taking a break from normal life (because this trip has been a long way from anything normal), has forced me to co
nfront the issue that everyone has been urging me to for so long: whether I’ll ever get over you.
In so many ways, all it’s done is confirm my doubts about my ability to let that ever happen. And if I AM destined for some Miss Havisham-style existence – living alone in batty solitude – then, often, I think, ‘So be it’. The reality is, amore mio, I don’t think I AM ever going to get over you . . . despite what happened
My pen hesitates over the page as the words ‘with another man last night’ tumble through my mind.
I pause and put down my pen as I pad over to the mini-bar to open a small bottle of water, then fill up a glass. I take a sip of it before returning to the desk. I pick up the pen again and scrub out ‘despite what happened’.
I know that you can hardly need reassurance that, had things been different – had we still been together – I’d NEVER have looked at another man. But the bastard that is Fate decided to throw a spanner in the works, and that fact became irrelevant. So the question remains about whether there will ever be ‘someone else’.
I must confess I like the idea of being properly happy again one day. I know that people aren’t really meant to be on their own all the time, that the benefits of solitude are limited to little more than not having to pay too much attention to your bikini line.
But at the same time, there’s this: I love you as much as I ever did. Not a day has gone by that’s changed that. If I was less of a rationalist, I’d say give me a message, give me a sign – let me know what I should do. But I know that’s a fairly tall order. Even if you are still the best listener I’ve ever known.
Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.
Imogen xxxxxxx
Chapter 47
‘So, do you want to see Harry tonight or not?’ Meredith asks on the way to the bar later that night. ‘Because, I’ve got to be honest, I’m confused.’
‘Try being me for a day then. You’d be in therapy by 8.30.’
The lift reaches the lobby and the doors open as my phone springs into life. My mum’s number flashes up.
I answer. ‘Hi, Mum. Is Florence okay?’
‘YOU’RE IN THE EXPRESS!’
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. ‘Yes, I’d heard,’ I say, hoping this is the end of the matter.
‘I didn’t believe it until Carol next door came round with a copy. I assured her that they must’ve made most of it up, because you’re on holiday and would never use some of the language they’ve quoted you as saying.’
My palpitations start to augment dangerously.
‘Honestly, I hope you’re having a relaxing time over there because it sounds like ALL HELL is breaking loose while you’re away. I dread to think what you’re going to return to.’
‘Can I speak to Florence now?’
‘It reminds me of when I was in Tokyo, an—’
‘Mum, I need to go to dinner soon. Is Florence there, please?’
She sniffs and reluctantly hands over the phone.
‘Hello, Mummy.’ Her little voice makes my heart contract.
‘Hello, darling. I love you.’
She doesn’t answer.
‘I love you,’ I repeat.
‘Hi, Mummy.’
‘What have you been up to today?’
‘Grandma’s been teaching me how to put on liquid eyeliner.’
I sigh. ‘And how was that?’
‘Good. Are you coming back soon?’
‘I am, sweetheart. And I can’t wait to see you.’ For a split second, I long for the moment when I will have her small arms around me and feel her soft hair against my cheek. This is followed swiftly by the realisation that it’s currently in doubt how I’m going to feed her and keep a roof over her head.
‘Mummy, is Benjamin Hewitt going to be at my school?’
Despite her reluctance to declare her love for me, Florence has told me on several occasions that she is in love with Benjamin Hewitt, a boy at her nursery. Given that I’m very hopeful of her remaining a virgin until the age of at least twenty-four, it’s not something I’m trying to encourage.
‘I think he might be,’ I tell her. ‘Are you looking forward to school?’
She hesitates. ‘Yes, but only if you’re going to take me on my first day.’
I swallow, trying to hold it together. This is the one benefit of my current circumstances, I suppose. ‘Okay, Florence. I’ll be there.’ Nothing can stop me now I’m unemployed.
She hesitates, as if she hasn’t heard me right. ‘Really?’ She’s virtually breathless with happiness and disbelief.
‘Yes,’ I whimper, hating myself for how overjoyed this has made her.
‘You’re the best mummy in the whole wide history.’
Now I want to cry. Mum grabs the phone after instructing Florence to say goodbye, and proceeds to tell me about how she bought some arnica for her bruises and it’s done a magnificent job and she’s bought some for me, too. Despite the fact that – broken arm and black eye notwithstanding (which she doesn’t know about anyway) – I haven’t actually got any bruises.
This is followed by the fact that she saw something on TV about a big carnival in Barcelona this week, meaning it will be overrun with people and pickpocketers and I mustn’t take off my special bag, even when dining, sunbathing or indeed enjoying a vigorous session of butterfly stroke in the swimming pool.
I’m so exhausted by this conversation that by the time I manage to persuade her I really am going, I end the call with the words: ‘Mum, you might not be able to get hold of me for the next twenty-four hours – my phone’s been playing up. So try not to phone unless it’s a REAL EMERGENCY.’
‘I only ever phone in emergencies,’ she objects. ‘Besides, it worked fine this time.’
‘Just text me, okay,’ I say, which I think is a reasonable compromise.
When I finish the call I find my way to the bar, where Nicola has ordered me a drink. Never has something cold and fizzy looked so enticing.
I sit on a stool next to Meredith and glance in the mirror behind the bar to see if I can see Harry. Then I decide I’m being far too subtle, so spin round to engage in a full-scale scan of the area.
‘He’s not here yet,’ Nicola says.
I take a sip of cava to avoid answering her. Part of me would be relieved about the idea of him standing me up. Although I do recognise that, if it was that simple, I probably wouldn’t have put on the nicest of my new tops, attempted to recreate the hairdo Meredith created a few days ago and basically put in more effort to my appearance than I have in the last five years.
‘Why didn’t you set a time to meet him?’ Meredith asks.
‘I’m not sure exactly.’
‘That’s a cardinal dating error, Imogen.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I point out, taking another uneasy sip of my drink.
It becomes evident over the course of the next two drinks that my friends are convinced Harry will arrive at some point, because they’re making their cava last about six times longer than mine to play for time. I, on the other hand, am torn in two over the issue.
One minute I convince myself I don’t want to see him here; then I start wondering why he’s not. Which puts an entirely different perspective on things.
And, after an hour of sitting, drinking and working myself up into a neurotic wreck, eventually I just want to get out of here.
Reluctantly, my friends finish their drinks, telling me that we’ll come back after dinner because he’s bound to have meant then instead, or perhaps I misheard or . . . something.
As we’re about to head through the double doors to the beach, I spot Delfina marching through the lobby. She’s chatting to the guy with curly hair, who I now know is a trainee with the Daily Mirror.
The other members of the group are behind. There is, however, one person missing. And now I’m really wondering why.
Chapter 48
We spend our penultimate night at a harbourside restaurant devouring a paella that looks capable of catering
for a modest wedding party.
It’s a beautiful spot, with the scent of warm pimento and saffron in the air as the sun makes a leisurely descent behind dozens of blindingly white super-yachts. And they really are super. Huge and glitzy, the sort of thing on which Kate Moss would sunbathe with a glass of Cristal in her hand.
‘Our VIP holiday doesn’t look all that VIP next to those, does it?’ I muse. I’ve been studiously avoiding the issue of Harry in any conversation. This is despite the fact that every second I’m away from the hotel, I’m wondering if he’s there in the bar, wondering where I am. Then I tell myself that if I sat here all night pining after him, I’d look like a complete saddo – and therefore this, really, is the only option.
‘There’s always someone richer and flashier.’ Nicola shrugs. ‘I’ll be honest, I’ve loved being away with both of you, but I’d have been just as happy on a campsite.’
Meredith looks appalled. ‘A campsite? Are you serious?’
‘Oh, I don’t mean I’m not incredibly grateful to you for sharing your competition prize, Meredith,’ Nic adds hastily. ‘That was unbelievably good of you.’
Meredith shakes her head in despair, then pauses as if an idea has just popped into her head. ‘I think I need to show you two a seriously good time tonight.’
Pregnant or not, Meredith has a nose for nightlife. She’s like a wild boar hunting truffles, only her speciality is bars with opulent VIP sections, cool tunes and a nice line in outlandishly named cocktails.
After jumping in a taxi and heading to God-Knows-Wheresville, we have found ourselves in a club where the sound system has been unleashed to its full, techno potential and my breastbone is vibrating like something you’d buy at Ann Summers. It is packed, the atmosphere is electric and it’s clear that Meredith feels instantly at home.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere you can find a seat?’ I ask.
‘No way! I’m going to dance,’ she insists, dragging Nic away by the hand as I head to the bar.
The Time of Our Lives Page 24
