‘No need.’
‘Please,’ I beg as he turns to leave.
He opens his mouth and then seems to think better of it. ‘If it means you’ll leave me alone, then sure.’
When we get to the bar, Jackson is taller than everyone around him and draws the attention of the barmaid immediately. I squeeze in beside him at the counter and ask her for a Shark Bite which is a colourful mix of Taboo, lemonade and coconut rum and is on the board behind her as themust-havecocktail of the night. I look to Jackson for approval, but he stares blankly at me. ‘Something less fruity?’ I take a second to weigh him up and ask for a no-nonsense Brandy Alexander, two shots of raki and a pint of Efes local lager just to be sure. Jackson shakes his head. Somehow, I am making an already awkward situation more disturbing by attempting to assess his alcoholic needs rather like a nurse reviewing a patient’s medication.
I do namaste hands and plead with him. ‘Please let me buy you lots of drinks. I feel awful.’
The barmaid charges me 75,000 Turkish lira.
‘Sorry. I think you’ve made a mistake with the bill,’ I say. ‘It can’t possibly be that much.’
She repeats herself.
‘I’m almost a trained accountant,’ I say, sympathetically. ‘Believe me. You’ve added it up wrong.’
The woman tuts and gives Jackson a questioning look.
‘Just pay the bill,’ he groans. ‘I’d think as analmostqualified accountant that you’d grasp the rudimentary basics of the exchange rate.’
How embarrassing.In my rush to pack, catch up with the few friends I kept from university, while ignoring my mother’s incessant warnings that Turkey is full of throat-slitting lunatics, I never thought to check with the Post Office to see if the economic strength of the pound against the Turkish lira had fluctuated in the last week.
‘But she’s charging less than two pounds. That can’t be right.’
‘It’s two pence a pint.’
‘What?’Surely not.‘Sorry, I must have misheard you. Did you say two pence a pint?’
Jackson relaxes. ‘Yes. Alcohol is cheaper than water here. They call it Bar Wars. Now, can you just pay her, please?’
I hand over double the money. ‘Keep the change.’ I’m relieved to see her face light up as she takes the many notes.
‘Cheers,’ says Jackson, handing me one of the shots. He downs it in one go. I follow suit, tipping my head up to throw it down my throat.
Christ Almighty. It fucking burns.
I grip the bar, wincing, and sling one of the cocktails down after it, hoping to put out the fire. It doesn’t work. If anything, it tastes like lighter fuel. I grab the creamy-looking Brandy Alexander and thank God that seems to quell the inferno. The alcohol whooshes straight to my head. I cling to the bar to recover myself while Jackson stares disbelievingly from me to the empty glasses. ‘Sorry.’ I hiccup loudly, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. ‘I’ll get you another round. Give me a moment, I don’t usually?—’
‘No. That one drink was enough, thank you. Have a good night.’ He turns on his heel and speeds away from me into the crowd. I watch him go. Him, the reluctant hero. Me, the aspirant alcoholic.
That could not have gone any worse. What a complete and utter disaster. This is what happens when I get distracted by romance. I need to give it up and focus on the reason why I’m here in the first place. Starting with finding a group of reps dressed in costumes like mine. Compared to the day I’ve had so far, how hard can that be?
6
After almost an hour of trawling around, battling the dense crowd, getting lost in the labyrinth of nooks and crannies thanks to all that alcohol impeding my spatial awareness and feeling sorry for myself (I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been elbowed by accident or my already unbearably sore feet have been stood on), I realise itisquite hard to find any of the LoveIt Holiday reps in what is effectively the equivalent of human soup. Everywhere I look there is a slew of gyrating bodies, big hair and smiling faces. None of the staff or bouncers I ask for help seem to understand a word I’m saying, and I’m just about to give up and head back to my lovely room with the comfortable bed that is pristine and laden with dreamy, plump pillows when I spot someone on stage dancing behind one of the singers. She is wearing a LoveIt Holidays uniform with its unmistakable gaudy orange, pink and blue swirls.
‘At last,’ I murmur, pushing my way through the crowded dancefloor to get to the stage before they disappear. But the closer I get, the more familiar the person seems. My stomach lurches. It’s the angry rep from the transfer bus, her blonde, caramel-coloured ponytail swinging violently as she swirls her head round. And that’s Shaun dancing next to her. He, too, is in full uniform and dancing, if that’s what you call marching energetically on the spot, chin tilted upwards, pointing his finger high in the air.
Why are none of them in costume?
There’s a whole gang of reps also in uniform, linking arms and singing their heads off while they sort of take turns to dry hump each other. One of them has a ponytail scraped back from his sweaty face and is pointing at the crowd as he sings along. He is acting like he is Elvis Presley, gyrating his hips and scraping his teeth along his lower lip in what he must think is an alluring manner. I watch him lick his finger and run it down his bare chest, causing a gaggle of women dancing nearby the stage area to erupt into screams. The ponytailed lothario pumps his fists and thrusts his hips at them, before mopping the sweat from his brow and wiping it on his shorts – histootight,tooshort shorts. He is also wearing a headband and looks like he’s just played a round of tennis with someone from the seventies.
Horrific.
A woman with devilish, fire-engine-red hair, standing with her hands on her hips, yells at the guy disapprovingly. He grins back smarmily. ‘Take a bloody chill pill, Erika. You’re not on boss duty now!’ he yells, bounding down the steps and over to an alcove where a small group of reps are sat around a low table with a massive bong on it. They are wincing at how strong it is and laughing uncontrollably. A split-second later, a huge waft of shisha smoke engulfs me.
I can’t do this. All the strength I have left in my body slowly seeps out of me. I have no energy whatsoever to join in or even to feign an interest. The soles of my feet are burning, and the heels of these spindly shoes are digging into my flesh. I need my bed, and I need it now. I take one last look at the booze-addled, wonky-eyed holiday reps and shake my head. There’s absolutely no way I want to end up in that state. I have the most important day of my career thus far tomorrow. I need to make a good impression.
