The resort is absolute beachfront. White sand stretches for days and where the resort ends, dense tropical rainforest starts. In the middle of the decked area is a thatched roof tiki bar doing a roaring trade with guests wearing a multitude of florals from loose t-shirts to sarongs in an explosion of colour. Some of them are perched on stools, chatting ten to the dozen over cocktails as upbeat nineties pop music plays. Others are gathered on the soft sand where a game of beach volleyball has drawn a noisy crowd. Staff outside wear a more relaxed uniform of hibiscus shirts that look infinitely more comfortable than what the front desk staff have on.
‘The volleyball tournament is taken very seriously here.’ Mariola points to the sandy court. Two shirtless men are up against the net, heckling their opponents. Their oiled muscles ripple under the sunlight – part of me is mesmerised by their toned, tanned physiques, the other is worried that suntan oil went out in the eighties for a very good reason and they’re risking melanoma just for looks. Still, I suppose it’s not my place to say.
They step back and one of the men serves, popping the ball over the net, and I swear I hear Kenny Loggins belting out ‘Playing with the Boys’. ‘It’s like a scene fromTop Gun,’ I breathe. I cannot wait to tell Lily all about this strange island full of insanely beautiful men with buff, bronzed bodies sculpted to perfection. Her eyes would be out on stalks. Mine are out on stalks, until I remember I don’t objectify people, so blink the sight away. ‘There’s, ah – a lot of skin on display.’
‘Yes, you get used to guests wearing very little.’ Mariola laughs. ‘You might even get a tan here.’ She covers her mouth to stop an escaped giggle, as if she’s suddenly overstepped. ‘Sorry!’
I laugh as I glance at the browned, sun-kissed bodies on display, and then down at my own legs – so pale in comparison and an obvious clue I haven’t been here long enough to be kissed by the sun, even though it’s my personal motto not to cook for looks. ‘I can’t wait to throw myself onto a sunbed with a book and forget all about dreary London.’ Not before I slather factor 50 all over me though. And honestly, London is not all that dreary in the summertime, I miss it already, but there’s no harm in trying to fool myself.
At one end of the Cabana Bar, a woman catches my attention. Her long summery floral dress swishes in the breeze as she dances around exactly like no one is watching, when in fact everyone is. To have that sort of confidence is my dream. When she clocks me, she stops for a second and then walks towards us in a zigzag.
‘Bonzour.’ She says to us as she slips her big yellow sunglasses atop her head. Mariola’s body language becomes deferential.
‘Bonzour, Mrs Bastille.’ They go back and forth, speaking Seychellois Creole. From the guidebook I picked up at Heathrow airport, I learned it’s French-based with African influences and is the mother tongue of the 99 per cent of the population of the Seychelles. The language is simpler than French because there are no verb conjugations and no gendered nouns, and if you were forced to study French at school like I was, and had to figure out what gender a washing machine was, you’d understand that’s a blessing. The Seychellois Creole language is also spelled phonetically, which makes it so much easier to pronounce. If I dredge my memory, I’m sure I can remember some of my school French enough to be able to at least greet people here.
‘Who’s your new friend?’ Mrs Bastille gives me a slow once over. Suddenly I’m hyper aware of my travel-creased clothing and the fact I haven’t showered in twenty-four hours. The woman’s gaze is slow, lazy, like someone who’s knocked a few cocktails back, despite it being early in the day. On holidays anything goes.
‘This is Harper,’ Mariola says. ‘The new manager for the Barefoot Bookshop.’
‘Manager?’ I blurt.
Mariola does a surreptitious shake of the head as if telling me now is not the time. ‘Harper, meet Mrs Bastille. This is Xavier’s mother.’
Mrs Bastille guffaws. ‘Please, Mariola. I’m a lot more than that! Yes, my son is wonderful and I’m proud to be his mother, but I once singlehandedly ran this place, and have only recently retired. How quickly they forget, eh?’ She’s orating, as if she’s also trying to convince herself that she made the right choice. There’s this strange undercurrent around here, as if the truth is just out of reach. Or maybe I’m imagining things. After all, my world has been a little fraught of late too.
‘Xavier is the one to blame when it comes to the place losing its soul! It used to be so relaxed and now we’ve got lanyards; lanyards, like we’re at a conference or something. Why can’t we just sign for drinks like we used to?’ says a voluptuous heavily made-up woman wearing a white caftan and strings of gold necklaces and an armful of gold bracelets that jangle as she gesticulates. The woman continues muttering under her breath about the many updates around the place. How does her make-up stay put in this humidity?
‘Ignore Doris,’ Mrs Bastille says, loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. ‘Some of the changes I admit are hard to accept, but it’s the way of the world, is it not? Xavier only wants the best for the resort – his legacy – so while we might like things the way they are, were, I’m sorry to say that we can’t stop progress.’
Doris shakes her head. ‘All these changes and the resort has never been quieter. You have to wonder if progress is the wrong choice, Mrs Bastille. Honestly. He’s a lovely boy, a darling boy, but he’s made a misstep and his ego is running wild with it.’
Huh.
‘The summer has barely begun.’ Mrs Bastille takes a sip of her drink. ‘Every day, more guests arrive. Soon you’ll be complaining that it’s too busy! Let’s hope it all works out for the best.’
Doris cools her face with an elaborate fan. ‘The best for whom?’
‘For the Last Chance Resort of course. Our home.’
Doris grumbles into her glass while Mariola leans close and whispers to me, ‘Doris is Mrs Bastille’s confidante, the ying to her yang. They’re always like this, balancing each other out.’ Just like me and Lily. My heart tugs for my friend back home.
‘It just worries me,’ Doris says, eyes downcast. ‘I’d hate this place to become unrecognisable, is all.’
Mariola pastes on a smile, darting a nervous glance between them. ‘Let’s not get morose, eh? Xavier has a plan.’
‘Future proofing!’ the chorus of voices ring out. Just what is going on here? It seems that Xavier is not popular with this group because of the renovation but is that only among the expat crowd? Are staff as upset? Perhaps the expats worry Xavier will increase their prices once the resort is fully renovated. It would be the cliché CEO power move that I’d expect of such a guy from my brief interaction with him, but I really hope that’s not the case.
‘Anyway, I’m sure you’re going to love it here,’ says Mrs Bastille. Her smile is wide but her eyes tell another story.
I return the smile, gathering this woman is not the snap-her-fingers type like Xavier. ‘I’m sure I will, Mrs Bastille. I’m looking forward to working in the bookshop. Gus and I had some big plans.’ Truthfully, we hadn’t quite got to the planning stage yet but I’m keen to see if she’ll give me any clues as to where the hell Gus got off to.
‘Gus?’ Doris shrieks. ‘Well, he’s now persona non grata, so the less said the better or I really will be banished this time.’
‘Doris, honestly. You’re going to frighten Harper off,’ Mrs Bastille sighs. ‘Can I get you a drink? It’s happy hour, after all!’
I’m no expert on happy hour times but I always thought it was held late afternoon. I glance at my watch: 10.30a.m. Maybe it’s different on an island with the heat bearing down and guests looking for a shady perch to cool off.
‘I better not because?—’
