This is paradise.
Absolute heaven.
And my new home for the next seven months. I race to the bathroom holding my breath.Hallelujah.I exhale loudly and wilt against the doorframe. It has a toilet. A clean, modern, toilet-bowl-seat-and-flush type toilet. Next, I wander through to the bedroom and I’m not disappointed. It’s all white walls and blue shutters. The view from this room looks onto the vibrant, azure swimming pool below. The wide surrounding tiled area is dotted with palm trees and there are holidaymakers lounging around. Some are fully dressed at the pool bar at the far end, others are sipping cocktails while reading on sun beds. Lively eighties pop music is being pumped out across the pool area, causing the swaying of hips and the tapping of toes. It isglorious! I feel instantly soothed by the holiday vibes.
I haul my case onto the bed and open it up, flinging clothes out until I find my towel and toiletries. I head straight to the little adjoining bathroom and turn on the shower. It sputters to life and relief sweeps through me as the fresh cool water sprays the sweat and grime from my aching bones. I squeeze loads of my precious Vidal Sassoon shampoo onto my palm and breathe in the coconutty hair salon smell as I lather it into a creamy mixture on my head. I eventually step out of the shower, wrap a fluffy white towel around me and feel almost back to normal (apart from several pulled muscles, the soles of my feet which are burning and a dull ache from my eyebrows down).
I search for my adaptor plug and begin to dry my hair. I may be physically and emotionally depleted but at least I smell divine. I’m a walking cloud of perfume, body spray and hair mist. I empty the costume out of the bag onto the bed and immediately groan. Stockings, suspenders, a minuscule pleated skirt, a shirt the size of a knee sock and a school tie. My soul droops but I suppose this is the sort of thing you have to expect when working for one of the world’s leading tour operators voted number four on Ceefax for their often wild and over-the-top Club 18–30 package deals. Their motto is ‘Your dream holiday or your money back’.
I dig deep to find a vestige of pride, some core strength from within and, deeper still, to find my inner St Trinian’s schoolgirl.
4
Fifty minutes later, I hobble down to reception in my highest heels and a full face of make-up to find a note stuck to the desk with my name on it.
Couldn’t wait any longer. Meet you at Halikarnas nightclub. See you there. Erika.
I look around me. The place is deserted. Who is ‘Erika’ and where is Halikarnas?
I venture outside to the picturesque and very empty street, each step like walking on sharp needles, my feet are so sore. I look both ways to see if there’s a taxi rank. There isn’t.
Typical.
A group of men on the other side of the road start wolf-whistling. One of them yells over to enquire as to whether I like cars.
‘I’ve heard Peugeots are quite reliable,’ I yell back. ‘Although Ford generally outsell all other makes.’
‘No,’ he yells. ‘It’s a yes or no question.’
‘Why?’ I shout back. I have no idea why I’m bothering but I’m hoping to eventually ask them if they know the way to the Halikarnas nightclub. They look like they started drinking on holiday ten years ago and never stopped.
‘Do you like cars?’ he yells again, looking mildly awkward.
‘I guess so. I have my licence, but I haven’t bought a car yet. It’s the insurance for new drivers. It’s prohibitively expensive. Why do you need to know?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Doesn’t matter. Boring cow.’ He is immediately ridiculed by his group of friends who seem to think he’s a complete loser. Then one of them yells to another woman coming out of the same hotel as me, as if to show him how it’s done.
‘Hey, darlin’, do you like cars?’
She instantly giggles. ‘Yes! I do like cars!’
The man pumps both fists back and forth at the elbows in a humping motion. ‘Well, back onto this!’
The woman squeals with laughter, nudging me. ‘Go on then, sunshine,’ she yells back. ‘Bring your massive cock over here, and we’ll have a good look at it. I’ll compare it to my rugby-playing, beefcake boyfriend and hishuge, award-winning wanger of a cock. He’ll be down in a second.’
The fella immediately looks panicked and the group scuttle away from us. ‘Such pricks the lot of them.’ She laughs before turning to face me. ‘One drink and they think they’re hung like donkeys.’ She looks me up and down in a sassy way. ‘You doing a hen night dressed like that? Girl, you look like sex on legs in that getup.’
‘Yes. Something like that,’ I lie. I can’t bring myself to admit to working here. I pull at the tiny skirt and regret wearing this outfit. It’s so many levels of wrong that I have to question my sense of duty. And I will. Just not tonight. I’m still so unbelievably weary. My hair is in bunches. The cut-off school shirt just about covers my bra. The school tie hangs down across my bare stomach. The pleated skirt is so short, I can’t bend over without flashing my knickers. And don’t even get me started on the stockings and suspenders. Or towering heels. ‘I’m off to the Halikarnas nightclub but I can’t see any taxis, can you?’
Instead of answering, her jaw falls open. She has lost her words. She is staring past me with wide eyes.
‘You won’t get a taxi here. Only the dolmus runs into town at night,’ says a firm, no nonsense voice from behind me. ‘It’s up that way.’
I swing round and look into the most striking pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. As dark as an inky sky. His sun-kissed brown hair falls casually across his forehead, shining in the last of the setting sun. His skin is tanned, his face ridiculously attractive and… and… familiar.
Oh. My. God.
It’s him. From the plane. Minus the streaks of baby vomit. He takes a moment to register me and my tarty costume. I see a myriad of emotions crawl across his manly features before he quickly looks away. It’s obvious he doesn’t recognise me.
