It’s loneliness, I realize at last. I’m lonely. Which is strange, really, because I’ve never really felt that before, even though I live on my own and haven’t had a boyfriend in six months. Okay, seven. And a half.
I always thought I was happy with my own company, though. Or content, at least. But as I sit there, watching other people go about their lives as if I’m watching a movie, it occurs to me that I’d rather beinthe picture than just looking on.
Isn’t that why I came out here, though? So I could do something that would make me feel like I was finally apartof something, rather than being the perpetual hanger-on, like I was in that bar with Chloe at New Year’s Eve? Wasn’t I supposed to be doing something about that?
Yes. I was. And I’m determined to see it through, too; otherwise, I’ve just risked my job and humiliated myself in front of a plane full of people for nothing.
“I don’t suppose you know a guy called Jamie, do you?” I ask when Smiley Eyes finally brings me the bill. “From next door?”
“Jamie? Sure, I know Jamie.Everyoneknows Jamie,” he grins, starting to clear the table. “You looking for him, then? How do you know him?”
“Oh. I, um, don’t really,” I admit, handing him some euros. “Not anymore. I knew him in high school, though. A long time ago now.”
“Ach, sure, it can’t be that long ago,” says Smiley Eyes, winking at me. “Do you want me to tell him you were looking for him? He’s not normally here for the lunch crowd, but he should be in tonight?”
“No, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’m sure I’ll catch up with him at some point. Thanks.”
I give him a quick smile and pick up my bag, ready to leave. I only get as far as the Chinese restaurant (again) though, before I realize I’m doing it again: I’m letting Old Summer take over.
Old Summer has the wheel: and given that she once got lost just trying to drive to work from her flat, that’s probably not the best idea, all things considered.
“Actually, on second thoughts,” I say, hurrying back to the table, which the waiter’s still busy clearing, “Maybe you could give him my number when you see him?”
Feeling very daring, I pluck a napkin off the table and borrow Smiley Eye’s pen to scrawl my name and phone number on it, before handing it over, feeling like this small act has somehow managed to turn me into a completely different person.
Who knew a simple paper napkin could wield so much power?
Buoyed by my newfound courage, I thank the waiter again, then turn and start walking in what I hope is the direction of the hotel.
Part one of my mission is complete. Now I just have to figure out what part 2 should be.
***
My decision to try to walk back to the hotel turns out to be a slightly optimistic one; although the promenade does, indeed, stretch all the way from Los Cristianos at one end to Costa Adeje, where my hotel is, at the other, it’s a much longer — and hotter — walk than I’d anticipated, and when I finally reach the gates of Hotel Martinez, I’m hot, sweaty, and with the start of what feels suspiciously like a sunburn on my scalp.
I’m also starving, having had nothing to eat all day but that single ham and cheese toastie earlier, so I jump into the shower, then put on my favorite little black dress, plus a quick swipe of red lipstick, before throwing my hair up in a banana clip and heading downstairs for my allocated dining slot.
The hotel restaurant is vast and bustling, with an apparently endless buffet table running down the center of it, and various different ‘stations’ off to either side, offering everything from steak cooked however you want it, to a selection of desserts grouped around a chocolate fountain, which comes complete with strawberries to dip.
The food looks amazing, but the clatter of cutlery and hum of voices is so loud I’m relieved when the waiter who greets me at the door takes a quick look at the list of names in front of him, then shows me to an outdoor seating area instead, on a terrace overlooking the sea.
Here it’s much quieter, with twinkling fairy lights strung between the palm trees to form a canopy of light over the tables, each of which has its own heat lamp to make sure the diners never have to be reminded even for a second of what the temperature might be like back home.
My allocated table is in a quiet corner next to a little garden that separates the terrace from the beach beyond it, and it would be absolutely perfect… if it wasn’t for the fact that whenI reach it, I find a familiar, dementor-like figure already sitting there, buried in his phone, as usual.
So much for never having to see him again, then. I guess I’m going to have to add the hotel restaurant to my list of places to avoid if I don’t want to keep bumping into my newest arch nemesis every few minutes.
“Oh, there must be some mistake,” I tell the waiter — whose name-badge identifies him as Emilio — digging my heels firmly into the ground before he can take me any closer to the man who recently accused me of stalking him. “This table’s already taken.”
“Yes, by Mr. Fox?” says Emilio, looking confused. “He sit here…” He gestures towards Alex, who looks every bit as thrilled to see me as I am to see him. “And madam sits here.” He pulls out the seat on the other side of the small table with a flourish and steps back to allow me to sit down.
“Er, no, I don’t think so,” says Alex, who’s wearing a white linen shirt, and looks like he’s just got out of the shower, with his damp hair slicked back from his tanned forehead. “This ismytable. Mine.”
He jabs a thumb at his own chest, and I close my eyes, desperately trying not to remember what it looked like with water droplets cascading down it as he climbed out of the pool this morning.
“Yes. And hers,” says Emilio helpfully. “You share, yes?”
“No!” Alex and I say in unison, finding something to agree on at last.
