‘I’m sleeping on a beach west of Sintra.’
‘You’re not coming back to Lisbon?’
‘Only to catch my train up to Porto the next day.’
I hate that we’re going our separate ways.
But what if it’s only for a week? Could I find the strength to stand up to my mum and dad and continue interrailing with him instead of flying home? My insides vibrate with a strange kind of effervescence at the thought.
‘Do you want to head straight to the Quinta da Regaleira?’ he asks, still talking about Sintra.
‘Yeah, I’d love to go first thing, before the queues get too long.’
‘You might have to wake me up so I don’t oversleep again,’ he says as we climb the internal staircase.
‘I can if you like, but how will I know where to find you?’
‘My dorm is on this floor.’ He nods ahead to a door off the first-floor landing. ‘I’m in number—’
His voice breaks off.
‘Number what?’ I ask.
‘I actually can’t remember.’ He looks endearingly unsure of himself. ‘It’s the fourth bed along, I think, top bunk. I’ll have to give you my key so you can let yourself in, but let me check the number.’
He unlocks the dorm room and pushes open the door with a heavy whoosh. I follow him inside.
As with my girls-only dorm upstairs, it’s a long, dimly lit space. Stylish red numbers are painted on the white wall to our right, running from one to twelve, with a row of offset top bunks accessed by ladders. Grey curtains have been drawn across each of the bedroom spaces and it’s quiet – people are either sleeping, or they’re all still out on the town.
‘It’s this one.’ He drags back a curtain that has the number nine painted on the wall above it.
‘Let me see what you’ve done with the place,’ I joke, climbing up the ladder and peering in at the single bed with its clean white duvet. ‘Ooh, very minimalistic.’
I vaguely wonder if it’s appropriate as I climb the rest of the rungs, but I know instinctively that Ash won’t mind. There are metal shelves holding personal items at the back and there’s a phone-charging station, although it’s empty. Ash’s rucksack is stashed in the corner. His bed suddenly looks irresistibly inviting and when I flop down, I discover that his pillow smells of coconut. It reminds me of something and as he face-plants on the pillow next to me, I remember what.
‘Body Shop!’ I exclaim in a tipsy whisper.
‘Body Shop?’ he mumbles, turning his face towards mine.
‘You use coconut wax from the Body Shop,’ I state with the confidence of Sherlock Holmes.
‘How did you know?’ He looks perplexed.
‘I can smell it on your pillow. I used to use it myself.’
His face breaks into a delightful smile. ‘I love your hair,’ he says, and his eyes flare momentarily, as though he’s surprised that just slipped out.
‘I like yours too,’ I reply with a grin, reaching out to finger one of his locks and drunkenly marvelling at how soft it is. ‘It’s not frizzy at all.’
He sniggers and I suddenly realise how ridiculous this conversation is.
‘Shh!’ someone hisses from an adjoining bed.
We freeze and stare at each other like rabbits caught in the headlights and then crack up, trying to stifle the sound in his pillow.
We’re not successful because the next shush is even louder and angrier. I press my face against Ash’s shoulder and he wriggles and lets out a high-pitched squeal. I’m silenced for all of the two seconds it takes for him to tell me ‘I’m ticklish!’ and then we’re both done for.
We’re crying with laughter, clutching his pillow to our faces, trying to get our hysteria under control. I have no idea how we manage it, but eventually we do, much to the relief of whoever we’re annoying, I’m sure.
