2
When we left the air-conditioned confinements of the airport, we were swarmed by over twenty different representatives for private taxis and package holiday transfers. A long line of drivers stood firm with their handmade paper signs, none said Harper Fox. We undoubtedly looked clueless. I’m sure we screamed, Come and take advantage of me. I’m just a dumb English tourist . The crowd of locals honed in on us. I turned to Sarah who looked just as confused as me.
“Surely there’s a BA rep around here somewhere,” I said.
“I don’t see one,” Sarah observed.
“Did you book a transfer?” Billie asked. The question was directed at me, rightly so, because I was the one who booked the holiday.
“Transfers are included in all package holidays, aren’t they?” I frantically searched through my emails. Why did I assume that? I was a serial double-checker, and a triple-checker. I would never book a holiday without a transfer, would I?
There was no service. My phone provider kindly advised me via a text that the rates in Mexico were extortionate, and if I didn’t purchase an add-on that cost double the price of my actual phone bill, my next bill would be more than my mortgage payment—in so many words. I bought the cheapest add-on option which I assumed would give me enough data to access my documents and solve the problem. Five different people approached me within sixty seconds.
“Ma’am where are you going?”
“Se?orita, do you want a taxi?”
“Do you need a taxi? I have a good price.”
My brain was so overwhelmed with questions, scenarios, and uncertainty it felt like it might implode. I could feel my heart pounding from every possible pulse point. I felt disorientated. The sense of impending doom might seem like an exaggeration to some but not me. No transfer meant no way of getting to the hotel safely. We were about to get ripped off by some sweet-looking Mexican man with a moustache and a Hawaiian shirt who was secretly working for the cartel and about to take us to some drug lord and hold us for ransom.
Especially Billie, apparently they liked blonde girls. Nobody could tell me my fears weren’t 100 per cent inaccurate, so I panicked.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whined.
Billie double-checked the transfer signs again. “Oh wait—”
My whole body froze.
“Nope. It says Miss Roxy.” She shrugged.
I could’ve cried. If I wasn’t surrounded by a multitude of strangers I would’ve sat on the floor and sobbed.
“Did you seriously not book a transfer?” Sarah accused.
“It’s not always my fault. You guys could’ve checked.” The tightening in my throat increased. I tried to regulate my breathing, one deep breath after another. The email detailing our holiday information described no such transfer .
“What are we going to do now?” Sarah threw her hands up in the air; her attention span was like my anxiety—easily triggered.
Billie strolled over a few seconds later with a man to her left wheeling her suitcase along. She grinned. “Fixed it, one hundred dollars private transfer. Let’s go.”
“Do you even know this man?” I questioned.
“Well, no, I just met him five seconds ago, but he seems legit.” Billie shrugged.
“You hope.” Sarah scoffed.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Billie whispered as the gentleman walked on ahead. I didn’t answer. Instead, I remained silent, rolling my suitcase along the concrete floor, focusing on the wheels as they bumped up and down on the cracked slabs below. My grey suitcase was now shaped like Gru from Despicable Me . The weight of all my belongings had pushed the front compartment forwards, so the luggage strap looked like a belt cutting off circulation.
Fernando seemed professional enough. Once we got closer to the company’s designated bays at the far end of the carpark, his colleague ran towards us and kindly wheeled my luggage to the vehicle. They wore uniforms and lanyards with IDs and several well-kept vehicles plastered with a name I couldn’t pronounce on the side. The chances of the company not being legitimate had to be slim; that’s what I told myself.
The transfer was approximately forty-five minutes. We raced down a selection of dual carriageways flanked by grand hotel gateways. The majority had armed personnel guarding the entrances— gulp . Despite my panic, I was in awe of each complex, and that was purely from seeing the exteriors. There were grand waterfalls, fire displays, and marvellous sandstone walls twenty- five feet tall, but the luxury architecture didn’t stop my heart from sinking every few miles when I saw a set of hazard lights in the distance or a police car with the lights flashing.
I couldn’t stop my brain from conjuring up every possible bad scenario. Whilst Fernando sped wildly down a highway with faded road markings, all I could think about was a truck of men with guns stopping traffic with one of those tyre popping spike things you see on TV and stealing all our valuable possessions. I had seen Taken one too many times, and Liam Neeson’s deep and precise voice was all I could hear ringing through my ears.
“Do you ever just feel like something bad is going to happen?” I whispered.
“Like what?” Sarah asked.
“Being kidnapped.” I made sure to keep my voice extremely low. Fernando spoke English, but the sound of the AC blasting through the car had me covered.
“God, I hope not because you’d get us killed,” Billie said with a straight face.
“It’s true, you would,” Sarah sided.
“Gee, thanks guys.”
“Oh, come on, you would 1000 per cent start crying uncontrollably, and they’d shoot you first for some peace and quiet,” Billie insisted.
“Okay, wow.” I didn’t disagree. I liked to think I was good in a crisis—as long as the crisis didn’t involve me. If Billie or Sarah called me in direct need of assistance, I was confident I could channel my inner Liam Neeson. If it was just me, I’d accept my untimely fate.
“It’s true though. You have a nervous breakdown if the dish washer doesn’t get filled up correctly,” Sarah verified .
“There is a specific place for everything in the dishwasher; if you put the bowls where the plates go, it ruins the whole flow.”
They looked back at me with the same arched eyebrow expression I was used to; it basically said, I told you so.
“Nobody’s perfect, at least I can pluck my eyebrows without needing assistance.” I stuck my tongue out.
Sarah laughed. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
“No, I’m being polite.”
Billie chuckled.
“I don’t know why you’re laughing; you asked me to pluck your nipple hairs last week,” I taunted.
“Sorry, what?” Sarah coughed. “I know we’re all close, but really? You can’t pluck your own nipple hairs?”
Billie cupped her breasts. “It hurts!”
“It doesn’t hurt any less when Harper does it,” Sarah mocked.
“I always nip my skin!” Billie countered.
I left the two of them bickering and turned back towards the window to envision the next disaster. Thankfully, the nausea had stopped. The nervous trembling halted for all of sixty seconds before the air-conditioning became so powerful I had to double check we’d landed in a tropical Caribbean country and not somewhere in the Southern Ocean.
“Is this our hotel?” I gasped.
The driver turned onto a wide access road. The sun had set in the distance, but large bamboo torches every few metres lit up the space around us. There was a vast stone wall at either side of the entrance with water running down the face into solid marble baths below.
“Wow,” I marvelled .
We passed through the first entrance to the hotel with ease; on the flip side of the wooden barriers was a large winding road housing a collection of hotels. It felt reminiscent of entering some kind of palace.
“Wow! Wow!”
The road turned to a cobbled stone drive for the final stretch. The pictures online looked incredible, but they didn’t do it justice. The hotel was bordered by a tropical jungle which gave it a peaceful aura.
“Wow! Wow! Wow!”
If I could’ve split my head open, those vowels and consonants would be the only letters available. It was like the easiest game of Countdown. I couldn’t seem to form any other words.
The taxi driver dropped us directly outside the entrance. One gentleman opened our doors. Another gentleman offered us a cool damp towel whilst another unloaded our luggage from the rear of the vehicle. I’d been there five seconds, and I already felt like royalty. It was a surreal experience. Royalty wouldn’t have flown ten hours in economy with a rowdy group of southerners, but I could pretend.
“It’s safe to say I have never had someone hand me a cool face towel on arrival. It’s a luxury I never knew I needed,” Billie whispered.
“I agree.”
The holiday cost me two months’ salary, which took me twelve months, one credit card, and some birthday money to pay for, but I was promised the trip of a lifetime by the holiday rep, so it was a small price to pay. The lobby boasted an open-air design. The enormous space had pristine marble floors, palm trees in deep marble planters, shallow water features running the full length of the reception area, and an abundance of handcrafted wooden accents; from benches and tables, to pieces of artwork so grand they could’ve been on loan from the Louvre. It was breathtaking.
The staff ushered us to the first available check-in desk. We were offered complimentary champagne, and the process was so efficient we were shown to our rooms within five minutes. As requested, our rooms were adjacent on the seventh floor. I preferred a higher floor, purely for the view. Sarah had the luxury of her father’s business trips and his ample collection of points for different hotel schemes. It meant the hotel cost her almost nothing and made Billie and me feel less guilty about being able to split the cost of our room. A room to myself sounded blissful, but my bank balance disagreed. I would instead have to endure Billie’s sharp, rattling snore and her remarkably regular bowel movements, but I would be rewarded with mosquito repellent and tea bags—every cloud.
Our room was in block two of the hotel. There was a connecting walkway from the reception area to the elevators where we waited patiently. The staff elevator came and went, but the young woman inside was busy with room service trollies. The second elevator arrived; it was full.
“I’m sorry. It’s a busy time,” the bellboy said. He didn’t interact a great deal; his English was limited, but he had a kind face. I watched the third elevator count up from the first floor.
Sarah had already given up; she sat on one of the wooden accent chairs. Billie was preoccupied with the broken zip on her bag, and I watched the number two blur into three as the elevator came to a stop. The bellboy was already a respectable two metres away from the doors. I stepped back conscious I didn’t want to crowd anyone exiting the confined space.
When the metal doors parted the elevator had just one passenger, a woman no older than thirty. She leant against the mirror with one foot crossed over the other. Weirdly, she had on a pair of sunglasses of a large aviator style that covered her eyes and the majority of her cheekbones. She had on a tropical print strapless jumpsuit in turquoise; the wide full-length bottoms elongated her legs. She was frantically searching through the small brown woven bag she had in her hand. She didn’t look up; she just leant over and hit the arrow button on the elevator control panel.
I opened my mouth to protest, but the doors immediately closed.
“Did she just—” Billie looked directly at the bellboy.
“Sorry, I will call another elevator.” He hurried over to press the button before saying something short and sharp into the microphone attached to his collar.
“Well, that was rude.” I seethed.
Who the hell was that girl? She had the full elevator to herself, and she abruptly refused to share. I folded my arms across my chest.
“That’s unacceptable, right?” I glared at Billie. Sarah wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention.
“Absolutely.”
If I wasn’t so utterly irritated by the woman’s lack of respect, I might’ve found her attractive. No, I refused to let that be my overriding feeling in that moment. She was rude and clearly quite obnoxious. There wasn’t even an attempt to apologise; she could’ve at least pretended she didn’t mean to hit the close button, but no, she just stood there like a statue in her perfectly tight jumpsuit.
We eventually made our way to the seventh floor. There was a bitter taste in my mouth after the encounter at the elevator. I tried to shake it, but as the bellboy showed us our luxurious room, there was a feeling of displeasure. I couldn’t help it, ever since I was a little girl I struggled to emote less, to let things slide, and to understand not every uncouth circumstance or ill-mannered occurrence was aimed personally at me.
When the twelve-year-old boy in my maths class told me the circumference of my brain was no larger than a pea, because I was stupid, I cried. Every maths lesson after, I relived what he said, and even years later I felt sorry for the eleven-year-old me who had to endure the cruel taunt.
I probably needed therapy.
The bathroom was spectacular; it had a full-length mirror that filled the wall completely, a double vanity to the right, and a large walk-in rain shower. The whole bathroom was covered in a dark soapstone. There was a wooden sliding door allowing some privacy when needed from the main bedroom.
“There’s an incense stick... there’s actually a fucking incense stick,” I squealed.
“Okay,” Billie yawned.
“It’s the little things.” I grabbed the small box from the wooden tray and struck a match. The room was immediately filled with a sensual, enveloping halo .
“I’m sensing Jasmine, blackcurrant, maybe a bit of patchouli.” I inhaled the essence.
“You’re wasted in real estate.” Billie smirked.
The bellboy continued to give us the tour of the room. He pointed out the safe, buried deep in the drawer of the built in wardrobes; they took up the whole right side of the room. There was ample space. The room came equipped with a steamer and an iron, in case you didn’t like using a steamer. And my favourite holiday necessity—a white robe.
“This one looks soft.” I ran my hand down the length of the bathrobe; it felt fresh. The embroidery on the right side of the chest was impressive.
“The room is about one thousand square feet. You have a fully stocked minibar here. The tablet by the bed will tell you all you need to know about the hotel amenities. You can order room service and minibar items from here.” He pointed towards the tablet. The king-size bed was the centrepiece. It was surrounded by accent lights and various modern accessories that created so much contrast. The room had a rustic character I adored, but it felt equally snug and serene.
“Hats off to the designer,” I said.
The bellboy flicked a small switch behind the large concrete lamp on the nightstand.
“This is the switch for your electric blinds.”
The mechanical buzzing kicked in, and the blind rolled up to reveal a set of sliding glass doors.
“The balcony has a jacuzzi bath and a daybed.” He stepped to one side to allow us onto the balcony first. “Please, come and look at the view.”
The night sky made it difficult to see much of the resort, but the lighting from the reception area and the various restaurants and bars around the hotel painted a picture of the sheer size of the place. The pictures online simply didn’t capture the magnitude.
Sarah walked to the glass edge of the balcony where there was a gap between adjoining rooms. It was big enough for a small child to squeeze through. “Hey, look, there’s even a little passageway for me to climb through on a morning.”
“Or you could use the door.” Billie pointed out.
“Boring.” Sarah waved her off.
The bellboy excused himself after receiving a generous tip.
“If you give everyone ten dollars, we’re going to have no money left.” Billie snatched the travel envelope containing several hundred dollars from my grasp. We’d all agreed on a tip fund, equally split three ways. After reading hundreds of online reviews, my heart sank every time someone said the staff didn’t get paid a lot, and they relied solely on tips. I was a sucker for a sob story.
“He just brought our luggage up seven floors,” I pointed out.
“Using a trolley and an elevator. He didn’t chuck it on his back and scale seven flights of stairs,” Billie joshed.
“Now that would’ve deserved a tip,” Sarah added.
“I will tip, and tip, and tip some more because I want to, and it’s only fair.”
“You’re getting an allowance.” Billie looked at Sarah who nodded in response.
“A tipping allowance, I like it,” Sarah said.
“Thirty dollars a day?” Billie suggested.
“Agreed.”
“I hate you both.” Note to self, don’t go on holiday with two people who are one step away from having their own reality TV show on how to “save money in the current climate”.
I retreated to the bathroom and made a start on unpacking my three bags of toiletries. I was delighted to find my moisturiser still intact, and the bottles of sun cream had held firm. The secret I found was to put the sun cream in a bag, inside another bag, inside the toiletry bag, and then wrap the toiletry bag in precisely three items of clothing and bury it midway down the suitcase, ideally flanked by a pair of shoes.
It was specific, but the proof was in the pudding, or in this case my unexploded cosmetics.
I removed my perfume, followed by my nail polish, deodorant, hairspray, and lined up all the essentials neatly in a row beside the left sink.
“Are you okay?” Billie popped her head around the open doorway.
“Yeah, why?”
“You’re slamming things,” she stated.
“Oh.” I hadn’t realised. “Sorry.”
I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, looking in the mirror, it was barely passable but, nothing a little brush wouldn’t fix. My eyes looked drawn; the adrenaline of a long flight was slowly catching up with me. What bothered me was the face of a woman I didn’t know: a brief elevator encounter, a stern face, caused an unexpected surge of anger mixed with, dare I say, intrigue.
“Can you believe that woman?” I scoffed.
“There it is,” Billie stepped back into focus. “You’ve been thinking about that this whole time, haven’t you?”
“No...” My wobbly response wouldn’t even convince a three-year-old.
“Oh, my bad. I guess we don’t need to talk about it.” Billie leaned against the frame of the doorway, eyebrow raised, waiting to be proven right.
“I just don’t understand why she had to be so rude.”
“She doesn’t know you; you don’t know her. I bet she wasn’t intentionally being rude to you . She was probably having a bad day; just forget about it,” Billie soothed.
She had a point. A logical point. Although, she had looked me dead in the eye. Had she smirked, or did I imagine that part? The incident happened a mere ten minutes ago, but it was no longer fresh in my mind.
“You’re right.”
“Let’s order some room service and make it an early night, okay? We need to fuel up for a long day of doing absolutely fuck all tomorrow.” Billie grinned.
“I already looked at the menu on the flight over. I would like the veggie burger.”
“Of course you did.” Billie laughed. “Sarah, grab the tablet, it’s time to abuse the all-inclusive,” she yelled.
Was I overreacting? Maybe.
Did I have a long history of taking things to heart that I probably shouldn’t? Yes.
Did it change the way I felt in that moment? No.
I need to get a grip.