Chapter 43
I take myself up to the adult pool again, snagging a sun lounger near the bar.
It’s the perfect spot. Close to the water and I can get to the bar and back before someone steals my space.
I haven’t seen Ellis, which is perhaps a good thing.
I didn’t come here to lust over someone unavailable.
I could do that at home on Instagram. He’s made it perfectly clear that he’s not looking for anything, which I appreciate, but it doesn’t stop me from quietly thirsting over him.
My music choice for today is Ludovico Einaudi. I want to be soothed. I want to be at peace. I find that classical music provides a very low risk of me becoming so relaxed that I forget where I am and start singing along to Barbra Streisand. In my defence, her Bee Gees era is tremendous.
‘Hi, sorry to bother you. Is this sunbed free?’
I take out my earbuds, lifting my sunglasses to get a better look at the guy standing at the lounger beside me, just in case I mistakenly give stalker boy the green light to park himself beside me and tell me that he watched me cross my legs while I sneezed in the buffet line.
Thankfully it isn’t him. This man is much younger, maybe late twenties, dark blond hair, chiselled jawline and looks like he works out.
Good for him. Maybe Alex Steward is his fitness coach.
I instinctively suck my stomach in. It’s a learned behaviour. Thanks, Mum.
‘Yeah,’ I tell him. ‘It’s free.’
He puts down his towel and his book, kicking off his flip-flops. I close my eyes and resume my futile quest for a tan. I go back to Ludovico when I hear a faint, ‘Excuse me.’
Earbuds out again, I look in his direction.
There’s a woman in an animal-print bikini walking towards us.
I swear, if he asks me to move so his girlfriend can sit beside him, I’ll refuse loudly and stubbornly remain here until an hour before my flight home.
I am not giving up this seat. Thankfully she keeps on walking.
‘I’m going to the bar, can I get you anything?’
‘Me?’
He nods. ‘Do you want anything?’
‘Um, a lemon daiquiri would be great, thank you,’ I reply, somewhat bamboozled.
My first thought is that he must work here and is having an afternoon off, but I remember that the staff have their own pool.
The only plausible explanation is that his mother has obviously brought him up to respect his elders.
He leaves and I take a peek at the book he’s reading. The Catcher in the Rye. I haven’t read that since secondary school, and I have no intention of ever reading it again. It’s completely overrated.
He brings the drinks back and I thank him again. He settles back into his chair with his Gully Wash, something else I find to be overrated. I scold myself for being a pretentious bore. No one cares, Sophie, it’s just a drink.
‘I’m Jude,’ he says. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Sophie,’ I reply. ‘I’d shake your hand, but I’ve just applied sun cream.’
He chuckles. ‘It’s fine. Having a good holiday?’
‘I am, thanks.’ This daiquiri is ninety per cent crushed ice. It’s sublime. I almost shout to the bar staff to ‘keep ’em coming’. ‘How about you?’
‘It’s been good. I’m here with some friends.’ He looks in the direction of a group of beautiful people, sitting at the side of the pool. I think two of them are the giggly couple from the lift. ‘They’re all paired up, so I’ve been fifth wheeling it.’
I snigger. ‘Try being here alone. It’s like being the new kid all over again.’
He looks surprised. ‘You’re alone? You don’t seem the type.’
What is it with men presupposing my likes or my persona?
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘God, I don’t want to sound offensive, but you know. The stereotypes of the over-sixty, retired, table for one, friendless—’
‘What makes you think that isn’t me?’
‘As I said. You don’t seem the type.’
I smile and his face relaxes. ‘I won’t lie,’ I admit. ‘I thought the same, but more the friendless, middle-aged loner who’s brought photos of cats. I couldn’t have been more wrong.’
As he speaks, I notice that he’s yet another person with perfect bright, white teeth, like a porcelain bathroom sink. I’m glad I have my sunglasses on. I mean, it’s not unattractive by any means, it just makes me wonder whether I should spend a few grand to glow in the dark.
‘How’s the book?’ I ask. ‘Enjoying it?’
‘I really like it,’ he gushes. ‘It was on one of those “Fifty books you should read before you die” lists. I can see why it’s so popular.’
‘Yeah, it’s certainly popular,’ I agree, thinking that I’ve never read a more annoying, unrelatable character. But I’ve never been a teenage boy. Or a raging anti-hero arsehole. Hopefully.
We chat for an hour or so. He’s a nice guy. He has dimples. Maths teacher, twenty-nine (nailed it), from Wales but lives in Manchester.
‘Maths was never my strong suit,’ I tell him. ‘And as an adult, I’ve never been asked to calculate the angle of a triangle or the volume of a cuboid, I don’t feel like I’m missing out too much.’
He laughs. ‘It’s not for everyone.’
At four thirty, I decide to call it a day.
‘It’s been lovely to meet you,’ I say. ‘Hope you enjoy the rest of your cruise.’
‘You don’t fancy getting drinks or something later, do you?’
Part of me is flattered but there’s a bigger part that wonders whether he’s doing this for a dare.
But for the first time on this trip, I’ve been approached by someone seemingly normal, even if I was sixteen when he was born.
If Madonna can date someone forty years younger, I can have a cocktail with Jude and his love for geometry.
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘Why not. I’m free after dinner.’
I say goodbye and, with a spring in my step, make my way to the lift. With one day to go, I’ve finally met someone. It’s better than nothing.
‘Hey, Sophie.’
I look behind me to Ellis. He’s wearing a white shirt, swimming shorts and holding his towel. His shirt clings to his body. I avert my eyes.
‘Did you just come from the pool? I didn’t see you there.’
‘I was there,’ he replies. ‘I saw you, but I didn’t want to interrupt. You know, cramp your style. You looked deep in conversation . . .’
I grin. ‘He’s from Manchester. He’s nice, but fifteen years younger. I initially thought he was just making conversation. Like a help-the-aged deal. Getting me drinks in case my walker slips on the wet floor.’
He laughs. ‘He didn’t see you like that, trust me. You sell yourself short, Sophie. There are older women and then there are older women. To him, you’ll absolutely fall into the latter.’
We step into the lift.
‘He wants to meet later,’ I say. ‘For drinks.’
‘See! Good for you! I’m pleased for you!’ His smile seems a tad forced. Maybe he’s bored of me.
‘We’ll see,’ I reply. ‘Can’t hurt to have a drink, right?’
The lift pings at my floor. ‘Nope, can’t hurt. Have a good night, Soapy.’
‘You too,’ I reply, stepping out. The doors close and he disappears.
Soapy. He’s never going to let that go.
Back in my room, I rake through my clothes, trying to find something that doesn’t make me look like Jude’s mother. Trousers and a vest top. That’s not age-specific and the outfit model on the ASOS website looked about twenty anyway.
I feel like I should tell Naomi my news. She’ll be thrilled that someone finally wants to spend longer than one conversation with me.
‘Are you busy?
I hear Naomi tapping on the keyboard. ‘Philip’s taken the boys trampolining. I’m just dealing with some emails. I hate this laptop, it just fucking updates for the fun of it. Thirty minutes this time. Anyway, you good?’
‘I have a date!’
I hear the phone switch to speaker. ‘NO! Who with? Ooh, is it the captain?’
‘No, I told you, he’s completely averse to dating.’
‘That’s a shame. You’ll just have to admire him from afar.’
‘This guy I met by the pool. His name’s Jude.’
‘Get you!’ she exclaims. ‘So, what’s poolside Jude like? I want details.’
‘Hmm, younger,’ I reply, unclipping my trousers from the hanger. ‘He’s from Wales, lives in Manchester. Twenty-nine. He has a six-pack. Big old white teeth.’
The tapping stops. ‘So, the complete opposite of your type?’
I sniff. ‘I don’t have a type.’
‘Liar. I’ve seen photos of the captain. That’s your type. Six-pack and Day-Glo gnashers is not.’
‘So, maybe I’m trying something new?’ I reply. ‘Besides, you know I like a Welsh accent. He’s a teacher. He—’
‘Wasn’t alive in the eighties?’
‘I was going to say he has good hair, but your point also stands.’
The keyboard tapping begins again. ‘I’m just kidding, Sophie. Kind of. Have a fun time. Get drunk. You should definitely have sex. It’s been a while.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Because you always tell me, and I live vicariously through you.’
She’s not wrong. It’s been at least five months and was completely forgettable. I’m not even sure why I bothered. Boredom? Human contact? To see if I still remembered how to do it?
‘Remember, it’s like getting your ears pierced. You don’t want the hole to close up.’
‘You are the worst.’