‘I’m actually on an organised tour. A day here, then two days on safari, back for New Year, and then home. Whistle-stop.’
‘Oh, wow, sounds like we could be on the same trip.’ I hope so; I’ve immediately taken to Judith and her lovely, warm smile. ‘I can’t believe we didn’t work this out while we were still on the plane.’
We compare notes and, yes, we definitely are.
‘Are you on the trip alone or are you…?’ Judith looks over her shoulder at Dominic. ‘I wasn’t quite sure…?’
‘Yep, no. Dominic and I doknoweach other, kind of vaguely, but this wasn’t planned. We – very separately – won the trip as a prize in a raffle.’
‘My goodness. What an amazing prize.’
It’s lovely chatting to Judith and we continue talking all the way through baggage reclaim, during which time Dominic stands several metres away, glued to his phone.
I’ve almost forgotten he’s there, when, as I’m trying to heft my extremely heavy suitcase off the carousel, he surprises me by suddenly popping up and lifting it (effortlessly) off for me. He lifts Judith’s off too, smiles briefly in response to our thanks, and returns to whatever’s engrossing him so much on his phone. I’d have said the luggage-hefting was sexyifit hadn’t been accompanied by silence and a clear email-reading addiction.
I’m excited as we leave the terminal. I’ve never been to South Africa before, and can’t wait to explore, plus it’s lovely to feel sun on my face and arms after a fairly grey autumn and winter in London.
The three of us, plus a jolly, bearded man named Mike, are transferred to the hotel in a taxi. Others in the group are landing at slightly different times. Dominic takes the front passenger seat next to the driver and sits in near-silence next to him the whole way, while I talk to Judith and Mike.
There are other people checking into the hotel when we arrive, and Dominic and I will find it very easy not to chat much if we don’t want to, I realise. Perfect.
* * *
When it gets to my turn at the desk, the man behind reception – his name is Jonas according to his name badge – says, ‘Mr Rock?’ while peering in a puzzled fashion at the elderly man behind me after giving me my key card.
‘Mr Rock is the tall man with the brown hair at the back of the queue,’ I tell Jonas, before stepping aside and heading up to my room on the third floor.
It’s lovely, on a corner, with wonderful views over the waterfront, with the mountains to the sides, anenormousbed, way bigger than super king – you could fit a whole family in there – and, I discover, a separate sitting room and an extremely luxurious en-suite. It’s all very modern – lots of marble, chrome and textured wood, but not intimidatingly so; it feels very welcoming. Iloveit.
As I gaze out of the windows, I feel a very strong pang for my parents and have to blink back tears. Mum must have spent a fortune on this trip for her and Dad, one of the memories they decided to create every year after his recovery from the life-threatening pneumonia he had in his fifties. I need to enjoy it to the full, in Dad’s memory and so that I can tell Mum how wonderful it was. She’s thrown all her energies into her children and grandchildren this year, and has copedsowell, and I want to do everything I can to make her happy, and just take advantage of this wonderful room, the wonderful location, the wonderful everything.
The first thing I’m going to take advantage of is the gigantic walk-in shower, because I feel very travel-grimy after the long flight.
I’m about to open my suitcase, when I hear the door click and begin to open.
I panic at first, but then remember I’m not in a horror film and that this will obviously be a hotel worker, not an undercover murderer.
I straighten up, making a mental note that I’d better lock the door before I actually get into the shower, only to seeDominic. Standing inside my room.
‘Flavia!’ What is hedoinghere?
‘Dominic! Why do you have a key to my room?’
‘No. Why areyouinmyroom?’
We stand there for a long moment, him next to the door frowning, me with hands on hips next to the bed, also frowning, while we both digest the other’s words.
I recover first. Clearly, the hotel must currently think that we’re sharing this room. And clearly that is a mistake. Obviously it must be because this room was originally booked for my parents. It will be easy to rectify it. They can just give us separate, smaller rooms.
‘I’m calling reception.’ I grab the room phone off its handset and press the zero. ‘Hi, Jonas. How are you? I think there’s been a bit of confusion. Another guest and I have been given key cards to the same room, but we aren’t supposed to be sharing. We are not together. We are strangers.’
‘You and Mr Rock were booked in together,’ Jonas tells me. ‘Youaresupposed to be sharing.’
‘We can’t share. We need separate rooms. We’re both happy to move to smaller rooms so that a couple can share this suite.’
Jonas sighs audibly. ‘Thereareno other rooms. We’re fully booked. There is, however, a sofa bed in your sitting room, so one of you can take that if you wish.’
‘But there’s only one bathroom. We can’t share that. Surely you have a spare room somewhere.’
