Chapter 36
The following day, I do the unthinkable and buy a tennis skirt.
It feels momentous to me and goes completely unnoticed by everyone else.
Possibly because every other woman here, no matter what their age, shape or size, is wearing one.
Clearly, they came to the decision faster than I did that baring a little flesh, even when it’s as imperfect as mine, is a better option than collapsing of heat exhaustion.
I still find myself hiding my legs behind my racquet as I walk to the court, but moments after I step on and feel the blessed relief of fresh air around my thighs, I have an almost biblical conversion.
No spray tan will ever give me legs like Gigi Hadid but I think Rose had it right – and it turns out I give less of a toss about what anyone else thinks than I ever thought I did.
The session is run by a coach called Marco, a tall, lithe guy in his late fifties who’s so athletic he’d put most twenty-year-olds to shame.
The focus is on groundstrokes – long forehand and backhand shots from the back of the court.
He gives us a quick demonstration, before we start on a series of practice drills and he invites me to step up first.
I stand in the centre of the baseline as he feeds a ball wide.
I have to run to reach it, hit it across the court, then sprint back to my start point.
Over and over again. The pace is steady but relentless and my heart rate quickly goes through the roof.
But with Marco chanting, ‘Vamos, Jules! Fantastic! You can do it!’, I find reserves of energy I never knew I had.
Here, it doesn’t matter about the shots that go out, or the ones that hit the net. It doesn’t even matter when I fire one directly at Marco’s head; he darts out of the way like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix and laughs, ‘Hey, Jules, don’t kill the coach!’ before keeping them coming.
The drill must only last for three or four minutes, but he says the words, ‘Just one more!’ on at least nine occasions. By the time it ends, I’m exhausted but nearly hiccoughing with laughter.
‘What are you trying to do to us?’ Lisa chuckles, patting me on the back.
‘You’re about to find out, Lisa! Come on, your turn!’
As she steps up, Rose grins at me. ‘I bet you’re glad you wore a skirt. Imagine doing that in leggings.’
‘I think I’d be in an ambulance by now. I have definitely come around to the idea of this,’ I say, looking down.
‘So you should! It looks great.’
And, actually, for the first time in my life, I feel like it does look nice.
I’m never going to have the best legs in the place, or even within our small group for that matter.
But here, in the Spanish sunshine, drunk on adrenalin, I don’t just feel comfortable in this thing.
I feel positively good in it. The intensity is dialled down a little for the rest of the session, but the on-court banter from the coaches certainly isn’t.
While the teaching is a highlight of the trip, it’s far from the only one and the rest of the holiday unfolds in a blissful haze of sunshine, endorphins and rosé wine.
At night my muscles ache from all the exercise and my belly from all the laughter.
I feel like I should be tired, but I’m not – nothing like it.
Since I arrived, I have slept like the dead and woken feeling relaxed, energised and optimistic.
Our final evening comes around way too soon.
‘If you’d told me when I got my diagnosis I’d be doing something like this, I wouldn’t have believed you,’ Rose says, on the sun-bleached balcony of our apartment.
‘You’re an inspiration,’ Lisa replies.
‘No need to be sarcastic.’
‘I wasn’t!’ Lisa protests.
‘Oh well in that case, you really need to shut up,’ Rose laughs.
I’m about to go and touch up my lipstick, when I get a video call from Frankie.
‘What’s that on your nose?’ I ask.
She wipes it off with her wrist and looks at it.
‘Oh, soot. That’s from the fire. Long story,’ she sighs, as I brace myself for what’s coming.
She tells me they arrived earlier at a campsite on the edge of Lake Como.
While Milly went off to the shower block, Frankie thought she’d get dinner going.
The story that follows is typically opaque.
While she doesn’t explicitly say that she left a lit barbecue unattended – instead detailing unexpected gusts of wind, stray sparks and a billowing tent – I know her modus operandi well enough by now to fill in the gaps.
‘It was chaos,’ she hoots, rolling her eyes like this is an entertaining anecdote at a dinner party. ‘All these people ran over to help. It was quite dramatic at one point.’
‘Frankie. Was anyone hurt?’ I ask, trying not to sound as disturbed as I am about this story.
‘Oh no,’ she says, with a dismissive swig from a beer bottle. ‘Not really.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask, imagining bodies being stretchered into intensive care.
‘I stubbed my toe when I was running to get help, but that’s it.’
‘Right.’ I release a long breath. ‘What about all your things?’
‘The tent’s a goner, obviously, but we did save most of our stuff.’
‘What did Milly have to say about all this?’
She looks from side to side as if checking the coast is clear, then leans in. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think she’s all that happy with me.’
No shit.
‘I keep telling her it’s just one of those things,’ she continues, ‘and besides, look at all the lovely people we’ve met in our time of distress . . .’
The emotional roller coaster I’ve been on in the last forty-five seconds is followed by a flicker of relief.
I imagine a delightful Italian mama taking the girls under her wing, feeding them wholesome, home-cooked cannelloni, perhaps even offering somewhere to stay for the night, in a lovely quaint bedroom with pillowcases she probably embroidered herself . . .
‘So, you’ve got somewhere to stay?’
‘Well, a B&B down the road but it’s quite pricey so some Swedish guys said we’re welcome to bunk into their villa. Oh, here’s Lars now! Say hi, Lars!’
She spins the camera around and for a split second I feel like I’ve inadvertently stumbled across the video from ‘Club Tropicana’.
There are five or six perma-tanned men with honed physiques lounging around a pool, wearing Wayfarers and the kind of swimming trunks my dad used to refer to as ‘budgie smugglers’.
My relief at spotting a couple of women is short-lived when I realise that they too look dodgy in ways I can’t entirely define.
Before I get a chance to comment, a figure I can only presume to be Lars stumbles towards the camera.
He has a dubious-looking cigarette between his fingers and what I seriously hope is a courgette stuffed in the front of his Speedos.
‘Heyy!’ he says, peering into the camera with a bleary-eyed grin that he seems to think is adorable. ‘Is this your sister?’
‘Ha!’ she guffaws, then hits him on the arm playfully, harder than he was expecting judging by the way he stumbles away.
I scowl into the phone.
‘Frankie. You cannot stay with those people. They’re strangers.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll pay for you and Milly to stay in the nice B&B tonight,’ I interrupt.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ she protests. ‘We’re fine, seriously.’
‘No, I do. I really do. Why don’t the two of you head over there now. I’ll transfer some money immediately.’
She sighs. ‘Well, now I feel bad.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m a grown woman. I shouldn’t be relying on you for money.’
‘Frankie. It is fine. In fact, I insist. Humour me, please. Just go now, okay? And don’t—’
‘Hitchhike. I know. Honestly, Mum. This is really lovely
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 I will pay 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 in Condé 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 feeling this 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’ve definitely got 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 even think about 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!’