‘I think you’re right,’ I say cheerfully. She is gorgeous. I don’t care that we have nothing in common (we really don’t): she’s beautiful and she makes me laugh way more than any given ‘joke’ warrants it. I’m loving being with her. I mean, we just spent literally at least ten minutes talking about word pronunciations, not necessarily the most exciting of topics, and I relished every second of that conversation.
After our main courses are cleared away, Maxim pops up and tells us that we’re going to shake things up for the desserts and everyone will be moving to a different table, for mingling purposes.
I’m surprised by how disappointed I am to no longer be sitting anywhere near Flavia. Right now, I realise, I’d like to go back to our room with her, just the two of us, and put that four-poster to good use.
And that is a bad thing. Because Flavia is a very nice woman, who has suffered both a bereavement and a marriage breakdown in the past twelve months, so absolutely nothing can or should happen between us, because there really isn’t such a thing as entirely-no-strings sex that applies equally to both parties, and I’m certainly not up for a relationship with her.
Which is actually fine. I just need to not give in to temptation. Assuming that Flavia would even be tempted in any way to do anything we clearly shouldn’t do. Maybe she wouldn’t; maybe I’m flattering myself.
Whatever, I just need to be a grown-up.
I miss her during dessert. I actually miss her. I can hear her chatting and laughing at her new table, and find my ears pricking up at literallyanythingshe says. At one point she seems to be talking about her favourite fruit (sounds like it’s oranges) and I want to rush over there and hear more. Then Alex-the-sniper asks her about her job and, even though Iknowshe currently teaches history and Italian as a maternity cover on a fixed one-year post at a big comprehensive in London, I’m straining to hear her answer. (Will she tailor her words in any way to Alex’s snipering – sniping? – background?) Then she begins to describe how to poach eggs perfectly and Ireallywant to hear what she says, even though I’m very much a fried or scrambled egg man, never poached. I think I’ve gone mad.
‘So are you up for that?’ Mike’s voice penetrates through, as I cock my ear for more of Flavia’s egg thoughts, and I stare at him, a little alarmed. I almost confirm that, yes, I am, before realising that I could be committing myself to literally anything.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,’ I say. And then I make an effort to ignore the sound of Flavia’s laugh and pay a lot more attention to my table companions. Not least because what Mike wanted me to be up for, and which I almost said yes to, was a trip to Ibiza, just the two of us, one of those ones where you fly in, club all night, in Mike’s words ‘pull as many women as you can’, and then fly home again at lunchtime. I’d have loved that fifteen years ago. Now it would be my idea of hell.
Dessert is nice. These are pleasant people. Even Mike. They aren’t Flavia, though.
When we finish eating, we all wander to the edge of the terrace with the remainders of our drinks to stare out at where the vast blackness of the bush is bathed in the moon’s pale light.
‘This is so much better than any painting or photo could ever be.’ Flavia is beside me, which I am very pleased about. ‘You know how we’ve all seen footage of almost everywhere in the world. It’s nice to know that it’s better to experience it in person.’
‘Yup. We’re also very lucky that we have the full moon.’
‘I know.’ Flavia suddenly gasps and points. ‘What’s that?’
There’s something huge moving quite close to the terrace. I peer into the half-light.
‘Maybe a rhino? I think they’re nocturnal.’
‘Wow,’ Flavia breathes.
‘Yeah.’
We stand and just watch. Gradually the others peel away and head for their beds for the night – we’re going to be woken early in the morning for our first foray of the day – and after a while it’s just Flavia and me. We aren’t speaking, we’re just both enjoying the view.
I don’t want to spoil the companionship of the moment, and there’s also the slight (great) oddity of our bedroom situation, so I just continue to stand there, looking out into the night.
Eventually, Flavia says, ‘We should get some sleep. We have a hideously early start tomorrow.’
I nod, and we turn to go.
When we get inside the room, she says, ‘I will happily take that beautifully big, soft bed in the hotel all to myself again and I will happily be the one who chooses each time who gets the bathroom first, and in return you have to let me take the sofa here. I’m averygood sleeper. I can sleep anywhere. And you are far too… long… for it.’
I laugh. Every time she uses a word that’s any kind of synonym forbigshe gets adorably embarrassed-looking, which I very much enjoy. Apparently I am extremely juvenile.
‘Long?’ I query, unable to resist teasing her about thisbigthing.
She looks me right in the eye and says, ‘Long,’ very firmly.
I smile.
She says, ‘Are you really,reallyimmature?’
‘Yup,’ I confirm.
She shakes her head and says, ‘Truly pathetic,’ except she’s smiling too.
