“It’s still summer. As you say, the weather is fantastic right now, and actually, this should be one of our busiest times as guests can avoid school holiday surcharges.”
“Isn’t it someone else’s job to get people to make the bookings? Marketing? Sales? PR?” I pile granola and fresh fruit on top of a bowl of yoghurt.
Jake grabs a banana and points it at me as he speaks. “You’d think so but apparently not. All budgets were slashed after last year’s fiasco, and the sales team don’t get any commission for bookings made so there’s no incentive to push hard. I did what I could with the website before I got here, and I asked for budget for social media and SEO, but they don’t have it. Last year wiped them out.”
“I would have thought they’d find some money from somewhere to try and turn it all around. Especially marketing and PR...”
“I don’t blame them.” Jake sounds resigned, and I hate it. “Those photos of the hazmat suits and the makeshift hospital tents with the beach in the background... Jesus, you can’t unsee that, and you also can’t remove the image from the thousands of sites it’s stuck on. I know because I tried. Did you know someone even did a forty-two-minute YouTube video analysing an image and saying it was all a hoax? They claimed it had nothing to do with a gastro bug, but rather the resort was lying about the virus, holding guests hostage and then forcing them to spend more money because they had to stay longer. Unbelievable! They zoomed in on the tent and said that it was one we already used for weddings and parties. I mean, as if! What kind of savages do they think we are using a ‘tent’ for a wedding? They’re called marquees, for one thing. We also ended upgivingguests money as compensation, not charging them. Anyway, this video is all over the review websites and comes up on the front page of Google. It’s a bloody nightmare and we can’t do anything about it.” Having peeled his banana during that short rant, Jake bites a sizeable chunk off the top.
“You keep sayingwe, but it wasn’t you, Jake. What happened was unfortunate for the old management and staff, but you also said that they ignoredthe first few cases of sickness for four days, that they didn’t even call a doctor. That’s how it got out of hand. And you had nothing to do with that.”
As Jake chews the momentum of his jaw slows. “It doesn’t matter. This is a make-or-break season. They need to make a profit this year, or they’ll have to sell. We need maximum occupancy to make a profit, and I’m not even close to that and currently, the bookings are dire. My budget is so tight. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been waiting so long for an opportunity like this, I have to make it work, Jen. I have to.”
I reach to squeeze his hand over the table. “I know, Jakey, and you will. Just give yourself time.”
He pauses after munching more banana. “At least having fuck all guests meant I could squeeze you in for this week, and upgrade you,” he says with a smile. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too,” I say and I beam back at him. I recognise so much of myself in him: the unwelcome lack of self-trust, the desire to be cheery and upbeat no matter what, the temptation to find your flaws first before someone else does. We both have good reasons for wanting to shield ourselves from the darkness of the world, but I’ve learnt in recent years that my shield wasn’t as strong or solid as I once thought, and it’s hard to see Jake maybe also coming to realise this.
“You know, when this season is over you should take some time off,” I say. “Realtime off. Not just a few weeks holiday at a mate's hotel somewhere.”
“Some of us didn't get nice settlements in divorces recently,” he says and it's like a light but definite kick in my gut. “And you know I was an idiot with my inheritance, unlike you.”
“You weren’t an idiot.”
“I spent a year in Sydney taking too many recreational drugs, renting a Harbour view apartment I couldn’t afford and sleeping with gorgeous men with commitment issues.”
“Sounds heavenly,” I say. “Maybe I’ll sell my house and go try that.”
“Don’t you dare. That house is your pension, and you still need to add your colour and sparkle to the monochrome vomit Robert inflicted on it. Besides, Ithought your plan was to go home and start writing your book. Have you firmed up your idea yet?”
My book. That's what I should be spending my time thinking about, not obsessing over a flirtatious Irishman's intentions.
“No.” I swallow down my food. “Not really. Divorce memoirs are so 2010. Mid-life memoirs are even more dated, especially by middle-class white women. And honestly, what I want to write a book about is intimacy. Intimacy and love and sex and desire and connection. But I just don’t feel qualified to do that right now.”
“Because of the lack of sex,” Jake adds.
“And connection, and intimacy, and love,” I add, although I don’t say desire. There was a lot of desire last night.
I spoon another large mouthful into my mouth, hoping I can then avoid talking more about this with my brother. As he focuses on adding sugar to his coffee, I’m confident I’ve got away with it.
“Quick question, Jenna?” he asks as he lazily tinkles a teaspoon against the side of his coffee mug.
“Yes?”
“Have you been fucked since Robert?”
I nearly choke on what's in my mouth. My body shakes as I start coughing, loudly.
“Good God, woman. Don't die on me.” Jake stands to pass me a glass of orange juice.
I force down whatever is left in my mouth and take a big swig of the juice. “Jakey! What kind of question is that before eight o'clock in the morning?”
“One I've been thinking about asking you for a while,” he says with a slight lift of his shoulders as he sits back down.
“Well, I...”
“You haven't, have you? That's totally fine. Heck, it's understandable. And you know I'm not here to judge in any way, shape or form – at least not in real-time in front of your face - but I just think you may feel better about yourself if you got absolutely, utterly, back-breakingly railed.”
