I might not have a lot of experience with booking last-minute holidays, but even I know they can be a bit of a gamble; and trust me when I tell you, I amnota gambler. Or I wasn’t until just after midnight on New Year’s Eve, when I impulsively decided to jump online and book a room in the first hotel that had availability: which just so happened to be this one.
Hotel Martinez sits right on the coast, in what the booking site informed me is a ‘coveted beach side location’, with five separate swimming pools, plus a luxury spa. Now, the old Summer would probably have been put off by those words alone, knowing that luxury spas and beachfront locations are generally way out of her budget: which is something Old Summer took very seriously indeed — just like she took everything else.
No, Old Summer wouldn’t have looked twice at Hotel Martinez. Old Summer would have just scrolled on by, then filtered the search results from ‘low to high’ (Are there people in the world who filter from ‘high to low’? Because I would very much like to meet them, if so…), before booking herself a nice, sensible B&B somewhere five miles from the beach, and with a sewage works and/or all-night karaoke bar right next to it.
But that was Old Summer; and she’s not here, is she?
No, new Summer is in charge now. Cool Summer. And Cool Summer is very much the kind of girl who stays in luxury hotels, and worries about the credit card bill later. Or she’s trying to be, anyway.
Determinedly pushing aside the little voice in my head that keeps on trying to tell me I don’t belong here, I lean over the balcony, trying to take in as much as possible. The hotel is huge and white, with little red-roofed turrets spaced at intervals along its walls, like a castle; only one with palm trees and tiki bars, and Ithinkthat’s a lazy river I can see winding its way down to the sea.
I’m the kind of girl who stays in hotels with lazy rivers and turrets now.
I think I’m starting to feel cooler already.
My shoulders descend a couple of notches as I allow myself to relax a little more, focusing on the faint tinkle of cutlery that tells me breakfast is underway somewhere just out of sight. If I listenreallycarefully I discover I can hear the waves crashing on the beach below us, and that’s approximately a hundred times better than the constant beeping of phones and clattering of keyboards that I’d be listening to if I was at work right now, like I would be if I hadn’t got on that plane yesterday.
It’s perfect.
And expensive, whispers Old Summer traitorously from somewhere in the back of my mind.So let’s just hope Linda doesn’t decide to fire you for taking time off without booking it 12 weeks in advance, you’re supposed to.
“Zip it, Old Summer,” I say sternly, taking out my phone to snap a quick photo for Libby and co. “No one asked you.”
It’s still early, but there’s already a handful of people claiming their spaces by the pool, plus one particularly early bird swimming lengths up and down it. I watch appreciatively as his muscular arms slice effortlessly through the turquoise water, sending droplets shimmering through the air. Just as I’m about to take a photo for the benefit of Libby and everyone else on Instagram, he reaches the end of thepool and pushes himself up and out of the water. I catch a tantalizing glimpse of a lightly tanned six-pack and taut stomach muscles as he balances easily on his arms, then he looks up in my direction, his dark hair slicked back and his eyes — one of which is surrounded by a large purple bruise — narrowing as he catches sight of me on the balcony above, the phone still raised in the air, ready to take the shot.
“Hey, Cool Girl,” he yells, making me almost drop my phone in horror. “You better not be taking photos of me from up there. You look like a stalker.”
Noooo. It can’t be? Surely my luck can’t bethatbad?
I spring guiltily backwards, even though I’m not actually doing anything wrong.
There’s a soft click as my thumb reflexively hits the screen, and the phone snaps a perfectly framed photo of a half-naked Alexander Fox climbing out of the swimming pool, looking equal parts grumpy and gorgeous.
Oh. My. God.
It really is him: my own personal traveling Dementor. Here. In my hotel. With his … his muscles, and his scowl.Dementing.
I rub my eyes in the vague hope they might be playing tricks on me, but when I look back down over the balcony, he’s still there — swimming trunks clinging to his perfectly shaped backside as he wraps a towel around his tapered waist and pulls his sunglasses back down over his eyes.
I step quickly behind a handy plant pot that’s positioned on the balcony, peeping cautiously out from between the leaves of the orange-flowered plant inside it to see what he’s doing.
When I muttered goodbye to him at baggage claim last night and made a run for the taxi rank, I’d assumed I’d never see Alexander Fox again. But of all the hotels on all the island, he had to go and check intothis one — and now my only hope is that he hasn’t actually recognized me from this distance, and just callseveryonehe meets ‘Cool Girl’.
For, you know,no reason.
“I can still see you, Summer,” Alex calls up to me, dashing yet another hope. “That’s a terrible hiding place, you know. Nice PJs, by the way.”
I dart back inside before he can say anything else, closing the balcony doors firmly behind me, then pulling the curtains back over them for good measure.
Okay, calm down, Summer. It’s not the end of the world. This is a huge hotel. One of the biggest on the island, according to the leaflet on the dressing table. I probably won’t even see him again. Just as long as I avoid the swimming pool. And… everywhere in the vicinity of the swimming pool. I can do that. There are four other pools! I’ll be fine!
And theyarenice PJs. Sothere, Alex Fox.
Feeling a little better, I open up my suitcase, which I was too tired to unpack last night, and start transferring my meager collection of clothes to the wardrobe. They hang there, looking almost apologetic in their luxurious new surroundings, which I try not to think about the cost of as I take a quick shower … which turns into a much longer shower once I discover the selection of free products that have been left for me by the double sink.
Once I’m dressed again — this time in a perfectly nice sundress which somehow looks much shabbier in the Spanish sunshine than it did in my flat back home — I send a quick message to Chloe (Who finally noticed I wasn’t in the pub around 10 hours after I left) and my parents, to let them know where I am, then I sit on the bed, realizing I’ve run out of things to do in my hotel room.
I’m going to have to venture outside.
