Chapter 3
We’re a bit sweaty by the time we reach the hotel’s helipad (sure) but it is worth it to find Em shrieking so loud on seeing us that we can hear her above the helicopter’s considerable din. My heart leaps as she starts running towards us, mouthing something I can’t hear, before we’re tackled into a snuggle.
‘Your helicopter is so windy!’ I shout, holding my hair back from my eyes. ‘When will the whizzy bit stop whizzing around?’
‘You mean the rotor blade?’ Em bellows back. ‘Any minute now.’
The engine cuts, the ‘rotor blade’ stops, erm, rotoring and peace descends. So naturally, we fill it with as much noise of our own as possible.
‘Yaaaasssssss girls.’ Em jumps up and down.
‘Eeeeeeek,’ I call, bobbing along with her.
‘AM I STILL SHOUTING?’ shouts Stella.
It takes a full ten minutes for us to stop staring lovingly into each other’s eyes, leaping about in excitement at the prospect of a whole week together after so long, and by the time we do, Em’s luggage has been put on a golf buggy and yet another member of staff is standing nearby, politely waiting for us all to stop shrieking.
‘Sorry!’ I say. ‘We’re just very happy.’
‘And we’re very happy to welcome you to Gurnard Cove,’ says a polite man in crisp linen. ‘My name is Julian. Your room is ready, would you like to follow me?’ Then he motions towards the golf buggy and I wonder at what point of the holiday will I manage to stop cooing about things. I’ve never been on a golf buggy before!
We hop on, Stella in the back on account of her long, long legs, me and Em up front.
‘Babes, is that bird poo on your top?’ Em’s looking at me, perturbed. ‘And also a coffee stain?’
‘I had quite the journey here.’ I chuckle, recounting my morning of trains and stains. Then I add: ‘Taxi driver Carl gave me his number in case we want to go out exploring while we’re here. I’ve already messaged you his contact so we all have it in case of emergencies.’
Stella checks her phone. ‘Carl Vomitorium on Wheels,’ she reads aloud then gives me an inquisitive look.
I nod. ‘Long story. His car had dice in the mirror!’
‘Did the licence plate say “Fresh”?’ asks Em.
‘Did you yell to the cabbie, “Yo, Holmes, smell ya later”?’ Stella chips in.
‘And now I’m sitting on my throne as the prince of Bel Air.’ I nod happily.
Em looks around. ‘We’re not in Bel Air now, babes. Where actually are we?’
‘It’s called the North East.’ Stella rolls her eyes. ‘ Northumberland , Emerald.’
‘Yes, I know that!’ retorts Em. ‘But, you know what I mean.’
‘Nope,’ says Stella.
‘I had no idea it was so beautiful up here, is what I’m saying.’
‘Ah yes, it is baffling when one gets outside the M25, isn’t it?’ Stella’s putting on a posh accent now. Em takes this well, as she does all the jibes Stella sends her way re being a bona fide aristocrat.
‘I blame the jet lag,’ Em says with a yawn, her long blonde hair tumbling serenely around her pretty, pretty face.
‘Where have you been?’ I ask. It’s genuinely impossible to keep up with Em’s comings and goings.
‘All over!’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Gosh, who knows, Jessie. What is business, really? Or pleasure for that matter. It’s all so fluid to me,’ Em says.
Stella snorts at this.
Em continues, undaunted. ‘I got back from America yesterday,’ she explains. ‘Work meetings etc, and then I met up with some fellow cosmic enthusiasts for a crystal swap on Miami Beach.’
I hear Stella mutter ‘cosmic enthusiasts’ in the back and get the giggles.
Em grabs my hand, a twinkle in her eye. ‘There was an American football player on the flight home.’
‘And …’ I say excitedly. Emerald always has goss.
‘We banged. God, athletes are great in bed. Or, you know, tiny bathrooms on planes. So … thorough, right?’
I nod like I know what she means, when the reality is quite the contrary. Needless to say Em and I are opposite ends of the scale when it comes to pretty much everything. I mean, her entire life is thrilling and I spend a lot of time marvelling over her amazing joie de vivre. While I’m spilling drinks down myself and fielding text messages from ex-boyfriends, she’s off boffing sportsmen on first-class flights back from America.
‘I missed you so much.’ I sigh happily.
‘We’re here,’ Stella says as the golf buggy pulls up to a stop. ‘And I’m over the soppy bastards part of this holiday. Let’s go check out our room and start having some fun.’
Julian has pulled up outside a sleek wooden one-storey building with its own front door and hops off the buggy. There’s a gravel path edged with saplings leading to the front door. ‘You will be staying in one of our spa suites for the next week.’
‘A suite !’ I whisper.
Stella and Em bound inside, with Stella shouting expletives and Em making appreciative noises about ‘the vibes’. I thank Julian, step inside and gasp. Again. I have a feeling this holiday is going to be very gaspy.
There’s a hallway, for a start, where our luggage has been lined up for us next to three pairs of fluffy hotel slippers. I immediately put on a pair; so soft! We walk into a living room with bouclé sofas that look like clouds arranged around a neutral rug. There’s a large mid-century dresser against one wall with a coffee machine and three Thermos flasks next to it for when we want to go out adventuring. An old-fashioned radio plays jazz. To the right, bifold windows open onto a decking area, and a plunge pool glistens in the distance.
‘Is that …? Do we have our own pool?’ I gawp.
‘All of our spa suites come with their own private bathing areas,’ Julian confirms. ‘We can arrange massages and treatments in-suite, too. Please message your personal concierge service with any requests.’
I try to say wow but it comes out as garbled noise.
Back inside, Julian is showing us the bedrooms. All three of them.
‘One each?’ I ask.
‘Looks like it,’ Stella says, grinning and squeezing my arm.
I thought we might be sharing a room – maybe two single beds and a third camp bed if we were lucky. I’d already happily signed myself up for sleeping on a sofa. At five-foot-three, I’m the prime candidate for sofa surfing.
I pad into the bedroom at the end of the hallway and giddily note the beautiful furnishings. The softest bed with crisp white sheets. Neutral décor with sophisticated black accents. An armchair where I’m sure I’ll spend tons of time reading. Bowl of fresh fruit on a coffee table, plus a glass jug filled with iced water next to a selection of tiny chocolates. French windows open out to my own private terrace with views over the immaculately tended gardens.
‘I’ve got my own deckchair!’ I shout, mouth full of tiny chocolate.
‘Have you seen the bathrooms?’ Stella calls.
Bathrooms, plural?
Oh my very days, I have an en suite! Sleek, white and stocked with full-sized fancy products. What’s azelaic acid when it’s at home?
Julian gives us a quick demonstration of how to use all the everyday essentials I’m so totally used to in real life, like the voice-operated coffee machine, the online pillow menu and how to adjust the colour in the showers.
‘Sorry, Julian, what did you just say?’ I ask as he breezes through one of the bathrooms.
‘These are chromotherapy showers which support our physical and spiritual journey,’ Julian explains patiently. ‘Choosing the right colour for your mood will make your bathing experience all the more special.’
‘So true, Julian, so true.’ Em nods. ‘Speaking of which, my crystals are super jet-lagged and I was hoping you could organise someone to come and cleanse them for me?’
This is officially the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in my entire life, and I once ‘interviewed’ a courgette (long story).
‘Certainly, I’ll get our crystal cleanser sent over here right away. She’s called Gemini and she’s the best in the business when it comes to recharging,’ replies Julian, with a serious look on his face.
With that, Julian retreats, leaving Stella and me staring at each other, baffled.
‘Okay, what the hell is a crystal cleanser and if we’re saying that this hotel has one on staff, called Gemini, I’m going to have to jot this down for my future memoirs,’ says Stella.
‘I would pay good money for your memoirs, babes,’ Em says, and I’m suddenly struck by just how good it feels to be in their presence again. Emotions plus margarita and I find myself welling up at the thought of a whole week of this , with my favourites.
‘Jessica, stop it.’ Stella isn’t even looking at me.
‘Stop what?’ I ask, swiping away a stray tear.
‘If you start crying, you’ll set me off too. I already said, the soppy bastards part is over.’
‘How did you know?’ I whisper, impressed.
‘We’ve been best mates for ten years. That’s long enough for me to sense when your emotions are about to get the better of you. And also, you cry at literally everything.’
‘No I do not!’ I protest.
‘Remember when you tried to save a bee you found on your windowsill in halls?’ Em chimes in.
‘Barnard,’ I sniff.
‘Who calls a bee Barnard?’ Stella teases, squeezing me extra tight to show she’s joking.
‘I spent days trying to save him. RIP Barnard.’
‘You made a coffin for it out of a matchbox and then insisted we all attend the funeral,’ adds Em.
‘I remember that now.’ Stella grins. ‘I actually attended that funeral! I must have been drunk.’
‘Actually you were just looking for excuses to get out of writing an essay,’ I point out.
‘That does sound like me.’
‘Poor Barnard,’ I say. ‘Anyway, crying at a funeral is totally normal behaviour so I don’t really see your point.’
Stella just beams down at me. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
I take a minute to drink her in. Stella has been doing dopamine dressing since way before it became a fashion thing and she is never not wearing at least one eye-popping colour. Today she has her hair pulled back behind a bright orange silk scarf and she’s wearing a matching orange jumpsuit.
‘You look like a citrus fruit.’
‘So sweet and juicy.’ She winks. Her eyes are the same startling grey as Luke’s – whom I’m definitely not thinking about by the way – and she’s wearing no make-up except for a slick of mascara across her mega-long lashes. Stella is a beguiling mix of sweetly pretty with a razor-sharp tongue and I loved her extremely from the moment we met.
I watch her stifle a yawn, and it’s then that I notice my best friend looks tired, probably a result of her crazy busy job.
‘Why don’t we get unpacked,’ I suggest. ‘And, Stell, I can unpack for you too? Consider it a tiny thank you for sorting us out with this mega holiday. You can just chill out.’
Stella wavers. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes! Go relax.’
‘Oh yeah, I can help too, might give your room a little vibe check while I’m in there,’ offers Em.
‘Erm, okay, thanks, guys. You might want to ignore the left zipped pocket of my suitcase, that’s all my sex toys.’
I mutter to myself as I wheel her heavy suitcase through to her room. How many sex toys does a gal need for a week away? I brought zero.
I do appreciate a padded hanger, I think, smoothing down the last item to hang before sticking my head into the living room and finding Stella snoozing on a sofa. I grab a blanket and lay it over her, then go off to look for Em, who is sitting cross-legged in her bedroom, chanting. With everyone otherwise engaged, I decide to slip on my swimmers and get in the plunge pool.
Out on the private bathing area, there’s plinky-plonky spa music playing from hidden speakers. The decking is surrounded by a neatly trimmed hedge for privacy, with large bamboo trees at the back, rustling in the gentle breeze.
So peaceful!
I get in – perfect temp – close my eyes and do not think about Luke one bit. I do not replay the way he moved through the water, or that fixing-a-towel-around-his-torso moment, or the way his gaze made me burn.
‘You’re welcome,’ says Luke.
I snap my eyes open.
Can he read my thoughts? Where even is he?!
I hear another voice. It’s pretty and tinkly and I’d recognise it anywhere thanks to my terrible habit of doomscrolling at bedtime.
‘You really helped with my serve today,’ the voice says. ‘Like, I don’t think I’ve played that way in ages.’
It’s ThatGirlWithTheCroissants! I turn to look in the direction of the voices but the hedge is pretty solid, hiding the path or wherever they are talking. Still, curiosity gets the better of me and in seconds I’m out of the water, peeking through the bush for a better look. There she is! Walking past our spa suite with Luke in tow.
‘And your serve is so strong,’ Croissants carries on, reaching across and lightly touching Luke’s arm. ‘Must be something to do with these enormous muscles.’
I swear I see Luke step ever so slightly to the side, away from her touch. Probably wishful thinking on my part.
‘Practice makes perfect,’ he says in a professional tone. ‘You made some great improvements today.’
‘So you don’t think I’m perfect already?’ she asks, laughing a tinkly laugh. ‘Only joking. I know I need to improve. And I can with the right motivation.’
Luke scratches the back of his head and looks down at his shoes.
So she was the person Luke went off to coach this afternoon.
‘I will be booking in with you again, for sure,’ she presses on, swishing her ponytail from side to side. Irritation prickles under my skin. ‘When’s your next lesson?’
‘I don’t have my schedule on me but let me show you back to the sports complex, and the reception desk will be able to book you in to the next class.’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘But I’m only booking with you.’
A flash of jealousy courses through me before I tell myself to behave. Of course Luke gets flirted with relentlessly. Just look at him! And just look at Croissants. So peachy as she walks past in her cute little tennis outfit, all pleated skirt and Pilates-toned arms.
‘Why are you creeping about in the bushes?’ Em says loudly and I spin around. She’s watching me from the door, arms folded.
‘Not creeping!’ I lie, laughing in as natural a way as possible to disguise the fact that I was one hundred per cent creeping in the bushes. My fake laugh needs work, I realise, while praying that Luke hasn’t heard any of this.
She narrows her eyes, surveys the scene and looks at me again.
‘Sure? I heard you grumbling.’
‘Sure!’ I squeak. ‘Just, erm, bathing. That’s the noise I make when bathing.’
‘Right.’ Em doesn’t believe me, I can tell.
‘Well, shall we get ready for dinner? I’m starving,’ I say, searching for ways to divert her attention before I land on the perfect distraction tactic. ‘Oh, hey, Em. You’ll never guess what taxi driver Carl told me on the way over here. Want to hear the story of a famous musician and his secret love child who is also famous? No one knows they’re related!’
‘You know I do,’ says Em, delighted.
A lucky escape.