“Jesus, Maeve, it’s not like I got on the plane intending to have a shite time,” I begin. “I’m not the one who...”
“Don’t start.” She holds her other hand up, the one still gripping her phone. “I don’t have time to referee fights or to come and find you in bars you probably shouldn’t be in. Just behave yourself, get a suntan and be proud of how far you’ve come.”
I balk at her words. “Proud? What in the flying fuck do I have to be proud of?”
Maeve shrugs like we’re talking about the weather. “Well, you’re still here, aren’t you?” she says, and it hits every painful, tight chord inside of me.
Chapter Five
Jenna
Where is my brother when I need him? I want him here with me, rescuing me, not saving the resort from a bubble bath tsunami.
I need him here to laugh at the ridiculousness of my thinking a man possibly ten years younger than me was interested in me. I need him to join me in snorting at how that young man is now flirting with the most attractive woman in the resort, a woman who could easily be fifteen years younger than me. Of course, men like him go for girls like her.
I’m not surprised. It's human, and I don’t mean that flippantly. Most of us allosexuals are wired to look for aesthetically attractive people so that we, in the simplest terms, can produce attractive offspring. It’s what we are wired to do. Throw in some very restrictive beauty standards exploited by capitalism and colonialism, and of course, this man is going to choose that woman over me.
With this in the forefront of my mind, my brain has a path it is comfortable walking down to explain away this rejection. And yet still my stomach sinks. Why do I feel like I have a bruise growing all over my body? Why is the rejection making my throat dry and my eyes sting with the potential tears? Why do I feel like I lost a lot more than just a fun one-night stand with a man far too young to be anything more?
I quickly tell myself that I shouldn't feel so downhearted that the first real flirtation I've enjoyed since my divorce is now over. I should be happy I had a little fun for a few minutes and that even watching him walk to the bar - a visual I know I can and will mentally summon again, possibly along with the soundtrack of Donna Summer’sLove to Love You Baby– is on hand for me later in my villa with my vibrator.
I nod once as I realise what else will help me feel a bit better; taking control of this situation. I don’t need to sit here and wallow while this younger woman gets to hear the filthy things that I want Marty to say in my ear. I get up and head to the bar.
“Hi,” I say as soon as I’m in earshot.
“Oh, Jenna, shit, sorry, I got distracted.” Marty turns and looks genuinely surprised to see me, which only goes to confirm he'd either completely forgotten about me or he's now unsettled at the prospect of me interrupting his best lines for this young woman who is unbearably more beautiful now I'm standing next to her. Her naturally blonde hair – I know it’s natural because I’m studying her roots far too keenly – floats down her back, almost to her waist, which is impossibly narrow and wrapped in a tight spaghetti-strap vest top that disappears into high-rise, high-cling and just, wow, high-impact figure-hugging jeans. While she has the proportions of a 1980s supermodel, her face is that of a 1940s movie star, with prominent cheekbones, a narrow nose, elegant dark brows and olive-green eyes which keenly measure whatever, or whoever, she looks at.
“Hello,” she says, looking as suspicious of me as I feel of her.
“Hi,” I say with my thinnest smile.
“Shit, sorry,” Marty slaps his forehead. “Maeve, Jenna. Jenna, Maeve.”
I blink at him in disbelief. Does he expect me to pull up a stool and chatwiththem?
“Nice to meet you, Maeve, but listen, Marty, sorry to interrupt.” I wince at my apology because whatever I'm feeling, it's not sorry. At least not to him. Sorry for myself? Absolutely. “Did you already order that drink, because I think I'll just get a glass of wine and take-”
Marty cuts in, “Oh, yeah, I did order it but no problem. I'll get you a wine as well. Maeve, do you want a drink?”
My mouth falls open.
“Nah,” Maeve says, now looking at her phone. Her fingers are moving quicker than my heart rate, which is lining up with the speed of my thoughts. What a mess. Did I simply imagine the previous words we shared? Did I hallucinate the way he pointed his finger at me? What the hell is going on?
I’ve got to get out of here.
I place my hand on Marty’s arm to stop him trying to get the barman’s attention and I instantly regret it. Because it feels so good. He feels so good, and I wish he didn’t. I wish his skin wasn't warm under my fingertips. I wish it didn't feel so smooth but textured with fine hairs, like the softest velvet. I wish I didn't feel his warmth transfer to my skin as I keep my fingers there a moment too long.
“It’s okay. I don’t need a glass of wine, and keep my mocktail too,” I say, taking my hand away a moment after he looks down at it. “I’ll just leave you both to it.”
I turn to walk away because suddenly I feel so stupid, and ludicrously, like I'm about to cry.
“Wait.” Marty grabs hold of my hand, and in the same movement he somehow manages to lace his fingers between mine. He gives me a pull strong enough to stop me walking. “Where are you going?”
I don't want to open my mouth and say something foolish or risk crying when I've only known him five minutes, so I don't speak, just slowly, regrettably, pull my hand away from his. I then look at him before I look at her, and finally back at him again.
“She thinks you want to ride me,” Maeve says, still staring at her phone's screen. As I hear the slang, I also hear the accent. It’s Irish too, the same silky vowels and swirling tone.
“Oh, Jesus, no,” Marty says. “Fuck, no. This is Maeve, my sister.”
