‘I see you staring at my pancakes,’ she says complacently when her plate is placed in front of her. ‘Clearly jealous.’
I say nothing. I am so far from jealous. I like steak and salad. I don’t want to eat heart-attack-on-a-plate food. I don’t want to be rude, though.
She plunges her spoon into the pile and takes her first mouthful.
I find myself unable to take my eyes off the way she delicately licks a little bit of cream off her lower lip, before closing her eyes briefly in appreciation of her food. I’m almost shaking my head at myself; it’s ridiculous to find the way someone eats so… I don’t know, sensual. She’s just a woman. Digging into a stupidly large pile of pancakes.
‘Mmm,’ she says throatily. The sound of her voice somehow hits me right in the stomach. I give myself a metaphorical slap – I seem to have lost my mind – and pile steak, salad leaves, tomato slices and quinoa onto my fork. Hopefully eating my own meal will help me recover my sanity.
‘This isgood,’ she tells me. ‘Would you like some?’ She’s obviously going to have a lot to spare; very few people could finish a dish as big as that.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say, with zero hesitation.
‘Honestly, I don’t mind.’ She looks as though she’s about to start spooning some of her pancakes onto my plate.
‘That’s very kind, but, really, I’m more of a savoury meal person.’
She raises her eyebrows slightly, as though she considers me a little crazy, but just nods, and takes another mouthful. I turn my attention to my own plate, because watching her eat is just making me feel… well, odd. Which I cannot understand, because people eat in front of each other all the time, and it really isn’t comment-worthy.
When she’s swallowed, Flavia says, ‘So far, I’m loving everything about Cape Town. What about you?’ She’s giving me the impression that she is not good with silences.
‘Yeah, it’s great. The scenery, the hotel, this café, the itinerary. All good.’
‘Yes, all amazing. Especially the mountains, because they’re so unexpected. I wasn’t really paying that much attention when we were in the cab.’ She talked alotto Judith and Mike during that journey; I’m not surprised she didn’t have time to look out of the window. ‘I saw them properly for the first time from the hotel window and was juststunned. I thought there was only Table Mountain.’
‘No time to read up on it before we left?’ I reload my fork. ‘Not surprising, I suppose. We found out about the trip at such short notice.’
‘I never read up on places before I go. I like to be surprised. Like I was this time.’
‘So… you never plan activities before you go anywhere?’ I try – and fail – to imagine enjoying a holiday I hadn’t prepared for in advance.
‘Nope. I mean, yes, sometimes. But, no, not really. I feel like life’s too short.’
‘What it the popular stuff’s all booked up, though?’ I ask, perplexed. ‘Say you were in Paris. The Louvre. You have to book that in advance.’
‘The places you have to book in advance are always too touristy.’ She says it like it’s so obvious it almost goes without saying. ‘Doing the un-booked-up stuff lets you see the stuff that other people don’t get to see.’
‘Because they don’twantto see it?’ I suggest. ‘Because the booked-up stuff is thegoodstuff?’
‘That’sveryclosed-minded,’ she tuts, before forking another pile of sugar and fat. And then, when she’s finished chewing, she tells me about various occasions during her travels when she’s ended up in entirely unexpected situations through spontaneous decisions, and I reflect that it’s a very good job we’ve never been on holiday together. Not that we ever would have been, obviously.
Judith and Mike, as the only two people who booked onto the trip as single travellers, have been placed together, and are opposite Flavia and me, which I suspect is because we were in the taxi together: Maxim seems to take absolutely everything into account in his decision-making.
‘Uzbekistan! Kyrgyzstan!’ Judith exclaims. ‘I’m not sure I’d even be able to find them on a map. When was this? How long were you there for?’
Flavia begins to describe her travels. I’m surprised by how strongly I remember the deep misery I felt when she told me she was leaving for Kazakhstan, straight after my ill-advised (and, in hindsight, juvenile) declaration of love.
As she talks about meeting camels in the desert in Uzbekistan, I move her plate and glass out of the way of her gesticulating hands after she narrowly avoids (without noticing in the slightest) knocking them both flying.
When we’ve all finished laughing at one of her stories involving some warm, unpasteurised camel’s milk and a ship cemetery where the edge of the Aral Sea used to be in Uzbekistan, Mike asks her, ‘What’s your favourite place out of everywhere you’ve visited? And what’s your favourite kind of holiday?’
Flavia wrinkles her nose as she considers the question. ‘I don’t think I could choose a favourite place,’ she says eventually, ‘but I’ve always had amazing memories of the cities along the Old Silk Road, and the countryside in between. All that history, with such stunning architecture, surrounded by very remote countryside.’ She looks round for her glass of water, doesn’t seem to register at all that I moved it, reaches for it and takes a sip, before continuing, ‘And my favourite kind of holiday is one of those ones where you’re with someone you care about a lot and have a lot of fun with and you just go somewhere, with nothing planned, and just see what happens.’
I can’t help wondering whether she’s thinking of her ex-husband, and feel curious about how and why their marriage ended. I also can’t help thinking that I’dhateFlavia’s favourite kind of holiday. I like a well-executed plan, not a free-for-all nightmare.
‘What about all of you?’ Flavia asks. ‘I’ve been talking about my own tripsfartoo much.’
‘Not too much at all,’ Judith says. ‘Everything you said has been so interesting. I feel as though I’ve learnt something from you today.’
