These thoughts are what keep me going as I pull out most of my clothes and try them on in rushed, stressed movements that make me sweat despite turning the AC temperature down. I realise quickly it’s going to have to be a case of choosing something that makes me feel comfortable even if it doesn’t make me look my best. I wonder when exactly the balance tipped in that direction, because ten years ago I would have gladly suffered blisters on my heels, rib-compressing underwear and an all-day wedgie for a date with a man who looks like Marty. But not today. Today I want to be comfortable, so my final outfit choice is another oversized T-shirt dress with Breton white and navy stripes paired with my sexiest black halter-neck bikini – the one that makes me smile at myself in the mirror because of the way the top cinches my cleavage and the bottoms accentuate the roundness of my butt – and I pull up a pair of denim cut-off shorts over the bikinibottoms just in case he has me doing anything more active than lying on a beach. Then I blow-dry my hair, run some product through it, and make sure I have a hairband on my wrist because I rarely get through a day without wanting to tie it back.
As for make-up, I make do with my industrial strength waterproof mascara that costs more than a week’s worth of take-away coffees, a light dusting of bronzer and a generous coating of SPF lip balm for my lips because I hope to get at least ten kisses today. Maybe twenty.
I look at my reflection as I brush my teeth and a rush of unexpected questions charge in.Am I trying to look younger than I really am? Am I dressed too casually? Or not smart enough? Will this dress show sweat marks? Should I pack another bikini in case we do go to a beach and this one gets soaked? Does Marty prefer my hair up or down? Would Marty rather see more skin, or less?
As I spit and rinse, I laugh at myself because I didn’t worry half as much as this about any of the few dates I’ve been on in the last year, and maybe that should have been my first sign. I make a silent promise to myself that when I get home I will not go on another date until I have a swarm of butterflies in my stomach like I do now.
When I get home...Fuck.I really don’t want to go home.
I blink that thought away and fill a beach bag with a towel, my sunglasses, deodorant, sun cream, my purse and not at all as an afterthought, a couple of condoms. I spray far too much perfume all over my body and rub my wrists together – just like my mother used to. Doing this, I catch the time on my watch and see I should have left five minutes ago, but now I need to go to the toilet again. I groan and rush there. Once finished, I wash up quickly, check my reflection again and then do something I started doing once I left my husband. I talk to myself.
“You look good, Jenna. Just have fun, Jenna. If in doubt, drag him back to your villa and ride him until you get friction burns, Jenna.”
With a nod of agreement to myself, I walk out and hurry down the path towards the main entrance, with far too much of a bounce in my step. I’m just deciding what I will do if he isn’t there, but Marty is exactly where he’s supposed to be outside the main building’s entrance, looking up at me as I walk down.
“There she is! Looking fucken edible!” he says, so loudly a couple walking out of the main entrance turn and give him and then me a disapproving look.
“Hi,” I say. I want to say the same thing back to him. He looks like he was made to be on holiday, with his simple white T-shirt and khaki shorts that end above the knee, making his lean and sculpted legs look at least a foot longer than they really are. He’s wearing the same style Birkenstocks as me – although mine are gold and his are black – and I smile at this because it’s like another brick in that bridge that connects us over our age gap.
As I approach him, I have no idea if I should shake his hand, lean in for a hug, or push up for a kiss. I’m grateful when he decides for me, grabbing my hands and pulling me against him where he pushes his lips on my forehead.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say and I suddenly really, really am. I want any second with him that he will give me.
“I’m glad you are. We’re still waiting on...”
“Well, bugger me senseless, that was hard work.” I hear my brother’s voice and turn to see him marching out of the building’s double doors, two phones in his hands. “The sooner I can speak Greek, the better. Good morning, Jenna. You look nice. Ish.”
“Ish?” I give my brother a look.
“Well, you could have made a bit more of an effort.” His index finger wags up and down in time with his eyes as they assess me.
“She looks great,” Marty says.
“You clearly have sex tunnel vision,” my brother says. “Anyway listen, Yiannis fucked up, royally. They thought you wanted a scooter, not a car. I’ve called and their last car just got picked up so it’s a scooter or nothing. How do you feel about that?”
“We’re going on a scooter ride?” I am suddenly very grateful I put those shorts on. But a scooter will be fun. With a grin on my face, I look up at Marty and see he looks a little ashen, almost shocked.
“There’s really only a scooter?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s their mistake but when they’re communicating with me in English and I’m the bossy foreigner I don’t really feel in a position to complain.”
“A scooter’s fine,” I say.
“Actually...” Marty begins and his eyes lower to mine. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable driving a scooter.”
“I can drive then,” I say. I don’t know what’s going on, but I hope my smile is comforting.
Marty turns to Jake. “Are there any other hire car companies you can call?”
“I could... But the chances of you getting anything in the next hour are as good as my hangover magically disappearing.”
“Right...” Marty bites the side of his lip between his teeth.
“I don’t want to be a pushy dick, but I think this really is your best bet because I’ve already sent Lionel off with the...”
Marty holds two straight fingers up in front of Jake. “Ssshh, Sweet Cheeks.”
“Huh, so that name is staying, is it?” I say with a small smile.
