I know Dad finds it draining to suck up to the people he rubs shoulders with – he was raised with no airs and graces,so he’s had to adopt them. These days he sounds nothing like the dad I grew up with.
Charming the upper class comes more naturally to my mother, and you’d think she’s having the time of her life when she’s in the midst of it, but I’m pretty sure fawning over them makes her bitter too.
I wonder what my parents would think of Ash, and then I stop wondering because I know. He’s salt of the earth, like my grandparents. My mum has always been snobby about my dad’s family and even Dad turned up his nose at his parents towards the end of their lives.
But I loved them to bits. They died a few years ago, two months apart, and their loss still feels like a punch in the gut.
Theywould have liked Ash. That matters to me more than anything.
‘So what are you going to do?’ Ash asks. ‘Will you catch that flight home?’
‘There’s no way I can’t now. My parents would kill me if I wasted their money.’ They have plenty going spare, but they count every penny. ‘And anyway, I’d decided to quit for a reason. I’m not even sure I could psych myself up to travel on my own again,’ I add flatly, getting my lipstick out of my bag; red takes some serious upkeep.
Ash’s attention is fixed on my mouth as I reapply.
‘Where else were you planning to go?’ he asks.
‘I was thinking about Seville, Madrid and Barcelona, and then along the coast of the South of France before heading to Italy.’
‘What if we made a plan to meet up in Madrid?’
I hesitate. And then I feel as though someone has lit a sparkler inside my stomach.
‘Are you serious?’ I ask as he leans in closer, his eyes shining.
‘Completely. We get on, don’t we?’
‘I thought you liked travelling on your own.’
‘I’d rather travel with you.’
I cannot contain myself as I break out into my biggest, brightest smile.
‘Can I think about it?’ I ask, not wanting to make promises I might not be able to keep.
‘Of course,’ he replies with a grin, knocking back the remainder of his margarita.
Later that night, after we’ve been to another bar that sells dangerously cheap beer, we head back to the hostel in a tuk-tuk decorated with plastic yellow flowers.
I squeal as we turn a corner at speed.
Ash laughs across at me. ‘Give me your phone,’ he says as the wind blows my hair into a tangled mess.
I do and he opens up my camera app and aims the lens at me, clicking off a few shots.
‘Your turn.’ I waggle my hand at him.
Our fingers overlap as we exchange the device, and once more the tiny touch feels impactful in a way that is entirely unbalanced.
He leans against the side bars, his elbow propped on top of the bench seat, his upper body twisted towards mine. His shirt is flapping against his collarbone even more violentlythan earlier and he’s holding back his shaggy hair with his free hand, giving me a small smile that feels as though he’s bringing me in on all his secrets.
‘What time do you want to set off for Sintra in the morning?’ he asks when we arrive at the hostel.
‘Eightish, maybe?’ I follow him into the lobby, staring at his broad shoulders. ‘I need time to stash my rucksack in a locker.’
‘I’m leaving mine at the train station in Sintra so I have it handy for tomorrow night.’
‘What’s happening tomorrow night?’ I ask with confusion.
