Therefore this hotel holiday was more important to me than ever. I couldn’t face returning to a job like the one I’d had. My disagreements with Prue proved I needed more responsibility – and freedom. During these four weeks I’d learn what it took to work for a more dynamic company and arm myself with that knowledge for interviews. I’d already compiled a list of the specialised recruitment agencies I would send my revised CV to. The quicker I got a new job and salary, the less likely it was I’d have to bother Amy with financial concerns.
‘Do you think the ferry will have a shop on board?’ I asked, pushing away thoughts of my unemployment. ‘You know how Cheryl opposite loves perfume. I’m hoping to see some different brands.’
‘We won’t be taking the ferry.’ A grin crossed Amy’s face. ‘It’s a boat. Our island is only thirty minutes away. You see, it’s private.’
My heart raced. ‘Does that mean…?’
I could hardly stop myself from standing up to disembark, as the aeroplane bumped up and down on the runway. Necker Island. It had to be. The one owned by Richard Branson. I’d watched a documentary about it. Celebrities… world leaders… they all stayed there, spending tranquil days on the beach and sunsets at mouth-watering dinner parties.
Oh. My. God. Perhaps we’d become friends and he’d give me a great reference for my CV. Business tycoon, Richard Branson, had built his business empire from nothing. What an inspiration. That was one of the rare things Dad and I had in common – a respect for people who worked hard for what they wanted.
But not so hard that you hardly saw your daughters or thought family time meant attending a work barbecue to schmooze the latest client. Richard Branson seemed to have found the right balance. I’d watched footage of him kitesurfing and relaxing with loved ones next to pools with fairy lights. Impatience tightened my stomach as other passengers took their time, reaching up for their luggage. The thought of living on Necker for a whole month had reenergised me.
As we got off the aeroplane I wondered what our room’s welcome package would consist of. No doubt champagne and a basket of exotic fruit. I pictured myself, just for once, being the guest and someone looking after me. I’d be able to catch up on Netflix shows at night and have the permanent knots in my shoulders massaged away. I could wallow in hot tubs and sleep between Egyptian cotton sheets.
‘There’s our luggage,’ said Amy, pointing at the conveyor belt. My suitcase was twice the size of Amy’s and I managed to get to it before her, even though, despite her small frame, she could deftly handle the feistiest cat or biggest dog. I didn’t want Amy to hurt her back. She’d reckoned we should travel light but I’d bought lovely new sandals, a choice of handbags and jewellery… I’d probably brought my entire summer wardrobe but it wasn’t as if I owned loads of clothes and we were away from home for a whole month. Ever practical Amy had tried – and failed – to get me to pack practical items like walking boots and long-sleeved shirts to protect against sunburn. Whereas I’d secretly packed the pineapple bikini she wasn’t so keen on wearing.
I wanted to look my best. That had become a habit. Right from my first week in work, all those years ago, it was drilled into me that the first impression given by a hotel’s staff was as crucial as a vacuumed welcome mat or polished glass. I’d become used to keeping my nail varnish crack-free. My foundation flawless. My clothes pristinely ironed.
I hated the tiny bit of me that thought at least how I presented myself would make Dad proud.
He’d sneered at Amy’s academic ability. My flaw apparently was my weight. Was that why I dressed myself each morning with military precision? A deep-rooted fear of being looked down on, because of my appearance? Just the thought that his sly comments could still be affecting my life, today, made me feel sick. But if your own dad mocked how you looked, you grew up believing any stranger wouldn’t hesitate to think the worst.
I followed Amy and relished stretching my legs as we went through customs and entered the airport. Her style was completely different to mine. She’d quickly run a brush through her hair in the morning, whereas mine had been clamped between straighteners and then sprayed to within an inch of its life.
Airline workers announced flight departures and people hurried past, speaking into their phones. A janitor pushed his trolley. A group of chattering schoolchildren congregated around a stressed-looking teacher. Amy’s eyes narrowed as she looked for a sign presumably bearing the word Necker. I searched too, for greying blond curls. Okay. Perhaps it was too much to expect a multi-millionaire to meet us personally. I couldn’t help grinning at how quickly I’d acquired airs of grandeur. How different my days would be here, compared to the stuffy commute to work and hours spent mucking in with housekeeping and any other department, to make sure our guests enjoyed nothing but comfort.
Not that I disliked the more basic aspects of my job. I enjoyed feeling self-sufficient. Like the time the bathroom sink got blocked in the bed and breakfast, that first month I left home. I asked the landlord to look at it. A day passed. At eighteen I soon realised life was easier if you could help yourself. So I searched on the internet and with the help of baking soda, vinegar and boiling water, unblocked it on my own.
Suddenly Amy waved at a tall, solid-looking man with a confident manner. I studied the black spiked short hair, the warmth of his deeply tanned skin that matched the warmth of his laugh that boomed across the airport. The gorgeous smile.
My stomach flipped.
Then my default position returned and mentally I rolled my eyes. Jeez, I really did need a holiday if my inner narrative read like a soppy movie. I was too old for crushes. In fact, I tried to remember the last time a man had caused that reaction.
I couldn’t.
In one hand he held a sign saying… Seagrass Island. Oh. So I wouldn’t be picking the brains of a global entrepreneur.
Still.
Private was private.
And something about this man made it hard to look away.
As we got nearer, I studied him and his friendly, open manner. Those mocha eyes told a different story and suggested an air of… dissatisfaction.
Call it a sixth sense. I’d always had that about Dad as a child.
It started when I began going to friends’ houses to play. Watched how their dads would hug them when they got in from work. They’d ask about their day at school. Talk about taking them swimming at the weekend.
I’d been brought up to think only mums did that stuff.
And I’d become accustomed to analysing someone within seconds of meeting, after the years I’d spent working as a hotel receptionist. By the time someone had checked in I’d usually surmised exactly what sort of guest they would be. Take the businessman who smelt of alcohol and straightaway asked to be upgraded to a bigger room for free. He’d be ringing the desk throughout his stay with an impolite manner.
However, this man seemed courteous. I watched him interact with the people gathering around him. He was a listener. Friendly. Focused. Patient. Organised as he ticked names off his list. If he’d booked a room at Best Travel there would be no last-minute requests. He’d have double-checked everything in advance. He’d still charm the staff but with no ulterior reason.
There was no avoiding him, with his stature and appealing looks. That square jaw. The assured gestures. A group of young women in shorts and high heels teetered past and stared at him before chatting amongst themselves and giggling.
If he noticed, he didn’t show it.
We joined the group. The word seagrass did at least sound lush and luxurious. Amy gave him our names. I raised my eyebrows. Most of the others carried big rucksacks instead of cases and were dressed more like interrailing students. We were in one of the wealthiest corners of the world. I’d expected fellow guests to have smart sets of luggage and designer sunglasses.
‘Are you sure we’re in the right place?’ I asked Amy, as she came back.
‘Absolutely.’
I fiddled with my watch, feeling nervous, n
ot knowing why. Something didn’t add up.
‘Good to meet you… Sarah,’ said the man loudly, consulting his list. He strode over. ‘I’m Rick Crowley.’ He held out his hand. Long fingers pressed against my palm that suddenly felt sweaty, as his eyes met mine. They made me simultaneously want to both turn away and never break contact. ‘Thanks for booking your stay and helping us continue our mission.’
Mission?
What exactly had Amy signed me up for?
4
‘A friend of mine stayed here last year and said it was excellent, with amazing local food and staff who couldn’t have been friendlier,’ said a young woman next to us, crisply. She wore a plain white T-shirt and cotton trousers. Her hair was neatly tied back and her nails were filed short and polish free. I tried to place her accent. German perhaps. ‘This trip is a dream come true,’ she added.
My shoulders relaxed. I was tired. Hungry. Thirsty. That was making me paranoid. I smiled to myself. Honestly! What was there not to like about this corner of the planet?
‘I hope we meet your expectations,’ said Rick laughingly and bowed before moving away.
No doubt his mission was simply to deliver excellent customer service. ‘It’s a dream for me too. I think I’ll have a cocktail first. Then a dip in the pool.’
The woman rolled her eyes. ‘I know. Who on earth would waste money on a holiday like that?’
I grinned, having always been a fan of a healthy dose of irony. Not that I’d always been good at understanding indirect humour. Like when I was young, before I plucked my untamed eyebrows. Dad would hold leaves above his eyes and say I looked like that. I didn’t understand why it was funny. It wasn’t until I got older I realised it wasn’t.
Rick waited until all the names were ticked off his list. Nine in total.
‘Follow me guys. Let the adventure start.’
‘Adventure. That’s what you wanted, right?’ said Amy and she beamed.
That nervous feeling washed over me again, like years ago when I’d sense Amy was pulling a practical joke. On my seventeenth birthday Dad and our stepmother, Anabelle, were out. As a surprise Amy had baked me a large muffin and covered in squirty cream and sugar sprinkles. She watched me take a big bite. Turned out she’d decorated a bath sponge. I couldn’t help giggling with her for hours afterwards.
Rick’s style was more casual than I’d expected for Very Important guests like all of us. Not that I saw myself like that, but in view of how little was left of Amy’s five thousand pounds, now that she’d paid in full. Perhaps the hotel I worked for was behind the times, with its staff’s formal, detached manner. Rick led us out of the bustling building, in his well-fitting chinos and army beige shirt that complimented his long legs and broad back. We walked towards the exit opposite the customs area we’d just come through.
‘I’ve hired a small taxi van,’ he said and ran a hand over his stubble beard, ‘although it wouldn’t take long to walk down to Trellis Bay where our boat’s waiting.’
As we left the airport sunshine wrapped itself around me, tropical wind teased my hair. The air smelt of vanilla.
‘Thanks for this, Amy,’ I said. ‘You’ve done a great job of booking this holiday. I can tell it’s going to be fantastic. I’m so impressed.’
‘I hope it will be,’ she said.
We piled into the bus and sat down. Amy took out her guide again. I leant forward and looked around, trying to remember the names and information I’d overheard. There was me and Amy. Two young couples, one from England, one from France. The neat woman was Helga, from the Black Forest in Germany it turned out, here with her brother Jonas. I wondered how long his dreadlocks took to plait. With the large guitar tattoo on his left forearm and beaded bracelet he looked like the antithesis of his minimalist sister. Unlike serious-looking Jonas, there was Benedikt, from Hamburg, who had a permanent smile on his face, as if his mouth were drawn upwards by the fashionable man bun at the back of his head.
Where were the older people or young families with children? Why did everyone look as if they were about to spend the week with Bear Grylls? I looked around, feeling conspicuous. We were talking jeans with holes, worn trainers and T-shirts with save the planet logos. My sixth sense revved up and went into overdrive.
Amy glanced my way. ‘Sarah – sit back and relax. Just enjoy the view.’
A quirky trinket market came into sight as we approached the bay, the land curving around and rising green and dense on the far side. I almost gasped at the shades of blue. The ocean looked even more radiant this close, with warm hues near the shore and darker blueberry ripples the further you looked out.
‘This is stunning,’ I murmured, enjoying the sensation of being cocooned in the island’s heat. Perhaps I was the odd one out, clothes-wise, because I wasn’t used to worldwide travel. I looked down at my knee-high skirt and bejewelled sandals. A small red lump had appeared below my right knee. It itched. What a good thing we’d brought repellent although no doubt every corner of the hotel would have one of those special mosquito lamps.
The bus stopped at the dock and I could hardly wait to get off. Rick waited whilst we unloaded our luggage and then strode down to the shore, chatting to Helga and Jonas. Rick tried speaking German. Helga politely complimented his accent and that made him laugh. Yet still his voice still didn’t sound completely relaxed, as if words he really wanted to speak were locked up and just waiting for someone to release the catch.
I forced my attention away from his neck and unexpected thoughts of wanting to stroke it.
I hadn’t been with a man I’d cared about for two years.
I thought that last one had cared back until I discovered he was cheating.
Apparently it was my fault. I put up barriers. Six months in and Callum still didn’t feel I needed him.
Anyway, I hadn’t come all the way to the Caribbean for romance and a relationship – the only R&R I was interested in was rest and recreation (and research). I concentrated on my surroundings. The soundtrack was so different to the one I was used to back home, with the rumble of the underground and impatient London traffic. Here it was the screech of seabirds and slosh of waves against the beach, the rustling of leaves in the wind and sailors good-naturedly shouting.
I breathed in and could almost taste saltwater. A sense of freedom enveloped me that I hadn’t experienced since… memories rewound, a long way, to primary school, before Mum died. Me running as fast as I could, across school fields… climbing high in a tree, both terrified and thrilled by the prospect of suffering a fall… and then there was guide camp. There I’d felt like a free spirit.
‘Here we go,’ said Rick and people started to clamber onto… Oh. A fisherman’s boat? I’d expected a catamaran or a yacht at the very least, with a polished hull and spotless white sail. I almost gagged at the smell of fish guts. Algae had crocheted itself through nets hanging over the sides.
‘Blue marlin are local to the Virgin Islands, aren’t they?’ asked Amy cautiously and peered into the water. ‘I… I believe they can grow up to five metres long.’
‘Yes. Amateurs confuse them with swordfish but—’
‘The bill growing out of their head is pointed instead of blunt.’
Rick nodded. ‘I’m impressed. Someone’s done their homework.’
A smile lit up Amy’s face.
Jonas stepped onto the boat after me and ran a hand over his tattoo. His sister, Helga, chatted with Amy. He shot me an uncertain look.
‘I don’t like boats,’ he said. ‘When I was nine I fell off one during a school trip to a water sports centre, near Munich. I’ve never forgotten the taste of the water. It was worse than my university friends’ home-brewed beer.’
I asked him about the Black Forest. He chatted about growing up there. I said it sounded so picturesque. He said it was but at heart he was more of a city dweller. I told him about my life in London. The conversation flowed. Jonas was so easy to talk to.
‘At least there will be de
licious food and drink waiting to revive us after the boat trip,’ I said.
‘Yeah, right,’ he snorted, clearly not a fan of Michelin-starred cooking. ‘It’s no secret that I only came along to keep Helga company. She’s wanted to do this for ages but none of her friends had the money. Mum and Dad insisted on contributing.’ He sighed. ‘That’s twins’ love, for you. I was all set to say no but my instincts took over.’
‘Amy and I are sisters. I get that sense of loyalty.’
His face relaxed.
‘But what’s not to like about a month in the Virgin Islands?’ I asked.
‘I’d rather be at home for the summer with my vinyls and guitar. Helga’s always been the outdoorsy type, like my parents, and naturally suited to our childhood Black Forest home – whereas I’d have been happier in a high-rise apartment in a city like Hamburg where I studied. I was just talking to Benedikt – he’s so lucky to have grown up there.’
‘Have you finished university now?’
‘Yes. We’ve both just completed the final year. Helga did Environmental Studies in Munich. Me, Computer Science. I scraped through.’
‘Your parents must have been tempted to join you here,’ I said and laughed as we climbed aboard, imagining that there couldn’t have been a worse scenario idea than that for two twenty-one-year-olds abroad.
I would have hated it – but only because of Dad. If Mum had still been alive, I’d have loved to go somewhere glamorous with her, like this place or the south of France. We’d have bought exotic ice creams and gone shopping.
Shallow water swished across the floor of the boat. Jonas clasped his hands and looked warily out to sea. I patted his shoulder. ‘I’m out of my comfort zone too. My sister bought this break as a surprise present. I haven’t been on holiday for ten years.’
‘She got you this? And I thought I was out of luck,’ he said and grinned.
I rolled my eyes and nodded but didn’t really understand what he meant, sensing again that something was off.
A woman with bobbed curly caramel hair stood in the bow cockpit. She and Rick chatted for a moment before he donned a brown jungle fedora hat and took the steering wheel. With ease he guided the boat away from the jetty. Noisily it chugged. A bird with a white belly and dark head and wings flew overhead. Someone called it a Brown Booby. I thought that called for a joke but none of the native English obliged. With serious expressions everyone else took photos.
The Summer Island Swap Page 3
