of you.’
‘It’s fine, sweetheart. Just text me when you’ve checked in, okay?’
She thinks about this for a moment and eventually relents. ‘All right. But Iwillpay you back.’
Of course she will . . .
I end the call with a swell of relief and click on my phone to google her nearest B&B. There’s only one in the vicinity, an award-winning boutique hotel that once appeared inCondé Nast Traveller. She wasn’t joking about the prices. Just looking at them gives me another crunch of anxiety about my job situation. But I push the thought out of my head. I’d have paid triple under the circumstances. I transfer the money and get ready to leave.
I spritz perfume on my wrists and take a look in the mirror. I’m wearing a floral dress that sits just below the knee. I’ve been slathering on the Factor 50, but there’s still a smattering of freckles on the bridge of my nose and my skin glows from being outdoors. I’ve got a light curl in my hair that has already fluffed up, but the tousled result feels nice around my shoulders.
Do I look . . . hot?
I think I might. I genuinely can’t remember the last time I felt this way. No, actually, I can: Valentine’s Day, the year Ed died, when I wore heels and a dusky-pink dress for a posh meal in Manchester.
It’s not that I don’t make any effort with my appearance these days. I like buying clothes. I try to look sharp for work. But there’s a difference between feeling stylish and well put together and what I feel now, which might be – no,is– best defined as sexy. Or desirable. A long-lost feeling that I hadn’t realised was even missing until now.
I stroll down the hill to the little tapas place a short distance from the apartment, where the whole group is sitting outside around a big table, gently illuminated by string lights. A soft breeze blows back my hair like I’m in some eighties pop video and I self-consciously check the buttons at my cleavage as I step onto the terrace. My eyes are drawn to Sam instantly. He’s chatting to one of the guys in our group, but when he glances in my direction the conversation seems to fade in his mouth. The faintest smile appears at his lips. Without knowing why, I have to glance away.
I take the free seat between Jeff and Lisa, who are discussing Denise Dandy and the trial separation she is having from her husband. They know this because she’s announced the news to her followers on Facebook and made a ‘plea for privacy at this difficult time’. Sam is engaged in a different conversation and I briefly wonder if he knows, given that they were partners in that mixed-doubles tournament until recently.
Dinner is a feast of gambas pil pil, sauteed chorizo and Padrón peppers, accompanied by salads, warm bread and wine. Everyone agrees that, while they can’t wait to see kids and partners, this trip has passed far too quickly. But I don’t have anyone to go home to and perhaps that’s why I’m feelingthis so strongly. Honestly, I’d be happy for this holiday to go on forever.
It’s as this thought trails through my head that I catch Sam looking at me again from across the table. Emboldened by the wine, I don’t look away this time. In that split second of a moment, it feels like time is standing still. Everyone around us is talking. Laughter roars around us. But here I am, drowning in his eyes.
‘I’d be up for that, wouldn’t you, Jules?’ Jeff is saying.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘The waiter just told us about a place not far from here that’s a bit lively. There’s a pool table, dance floor and karaoke.’
‘It sounds terrible,’ Rose grimaces.
‘It does,’ Lisa laughs. ‘So we’vedefinitelygot to go.’
As the party discuss the pros and cons of La Manga’s top nightspot, my phone beeps and a picture of Frankie in a luxurious hotel bathrobe appears with the message, ‘All checked in, Milly’s happy, and I’m about to raid the minibar!! (joking) x’
I smile, click a heart emoji, and tuck it away in my bag, able to fully relax for the first time since her phone call.
The sensible half of our party decides that their days of checking out the local night life are past them and head back to the apartments instead. My brother was never going to be among them. Lisa is also eager to stay out. Both persuade Rose far too easily and Nora is as happy as ever to go with the flow. As a few of the others join them, Sam turns to me.
‘What do you reckon?’
‘It’s pretty late,’ I point out.
‘Don’t eventhinkabout going back,’ Jeff declares, slipping his arm through my elbow, to effectively kidnap and drag me in the direction of the bar.
‘Come on, Sam,’ Lisa urges him. ‘It’s our final night. This has to be done!’
Chapter 37
There’s a famous scene inDirty Dancingin which Baby wanders from the sedate guest area of their 1960s holiday resort into the seamier staff quarters, where hot young dancers writhe and shimmy in a fug of smoke to music a world away from Pachanga. For some reason, that comes to mind as we enter Mulligan’s bar.
Except, the music in question is ‘Nutbush City Limits’ by Tina Turner and I recognise the woman headbanging as she belts out the lyrics as a cabin attendant from our Ryanair flight. The dance floor is jumping. The bar is three deep. Shots are being lined up on a table by a couple of the American college girls from our coaching sessions.
‘I’m getting flashbacks to my student days,’ I say, raising my voice to be heard.
‘You’re not going to wimp out and go back to the apartment, are you?’ Jeff asks.
