Chapter 5
DAY ONE
CHLOE
Ibiza
‘Take a holiday,’ George said. ‘Take a break from real life and give this to yourself.’ Going to Ibiza is more spontaneous than I’m totally comfortable with.
I’m not the kind of person to just jump on a plane because my brother showed me a flyer.
I’m more meticulous than this. Although I’ve not taken a holiday for a few years now, I’m an organised holiday-goer.
I usually label all the bottles in my toiletries in case I get my conditioner mixed up with my face wash and I bring a variety of outfits for going out, for the beach, sensible trainers for sightseeing and enough insect repellent to drown a million and one mosquitos.
‘Hi, are you Lorenzo?’ I ask a man in a shirt and tie standing in the arrivals hall, looking like he may be a chauffeur of sorts.
‘Well, I can be if you want, Senora,’ he says, raising a strong eyebrow.
I step back, nearly tripping over my trolley bag and holding my handbag close to my chest. He smiles.
I do not. Please don’t kidnap me. You seem nice but I have no sexual interest in you and your impressive sweat patches.
I don’t know what I expected from this trip.
I guess a service where someone would be waiting for me?
I’ve been standing here for nearly twenty minutes since clearing customs and I’m starting to wonder if I should phone George and shout at him.
This is what happens when you’re impulsive and don’t read the small print.
What happens if no one shows up? All I have is an email address.
I don’t even have a contact number. I’ll have to book a hotel.
I’ll have to work out the cheapest way to get to the main town.
I don’t even know what the main town is.
I did zero research, which is proof I must be more burnt-out than I realised.
I guess I thought I’d just be picked up, taken to a villa and then I’d sleep for a week.
I couldn’t even find Ibiza on a map if you showed me.
It’s an island, that much I know. Does it have an embassy? This does not bode well.
‘Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing but are you waiting for someone called Lorenzo too?
’ a woman standing behind me asks, tentatively clutching her phone.
She has a wonderful frizzy halo of hair, sunglasses perched on her head, and is wearing a stylish black jumpsuit, a green cardigan and flip-flops.
‘I am,’ I reply and she instantly reaches out to hug me. I cling onto her shoulders, similarly relieved, even though I have no clue who she is.
‘Thank holy monkeys for that. I was just about to ring my husband and get him to cancel the credit cards. The retreat, yes?’
I nod, thankful to meet someone in the same position.
Maybe if we have been duped we can share a hotel room together before we work out our next steps.
I look down at her sparkly flip-flops and the bangles on her arm.
She’s more glamorous than me, better turned out.
I’ve gone for a wide-leg trouser and a vest top but I have a hoodie wrapped around my waist and I never travel in open-toed shoes – mainly because I’ve seen too many disaster movies where it’s been imperative to run from danger at short notice.
Like from snakes, vampires. Or to help Idris Elba fight Russian spies.
‘I’m Chloe.’
‘Zara. Can I ask a funny question? Did you find out about this from a flyer?’
‘YES!’ I say a little too loudly. ‘With Pedro Pascal on the front.’
She sighs loudly with relief. ‘My daughter thought I was being a complete moron. Of course Pedro Pascal isn’t going to be there, but you know what?
I took it as a sign that I should be here: divine intervention.
’ Zara points to the sky and we laugh, the moment relaxing us both.
‘But I guess the fact old Lorenzo isn’t here doesn’t bode well, eh?
’ She sighs and our laughter peters out, turning into the sort of silence that sits between strangers who know they’ve got themselves into a mess.
‘Story of my life really,’ Zara says. ‘First holiday on my own for years and it’s a big fat con. ’
‘I guess he could be stuck in traffic?’ I suggest.
‘Or we’ve been completely mugged off. Like when I see convincing AI videos and show them to my kids. This will be another thing for them to laugh at me about,’ she says, looking resigned and tired.
I see the fatigue in her eyes. ‘So, you have more than one kid then?’ I ask.
‘Three.’ She holds up the screensaver of her phone: it’s a photo of three teenagers making strange hand gestures. Christ, are they all in a gang? Those are some white, white socks. They look like the sort of kids who hang around my local Co-op stealing vapes and Tangfastics.
‘Louis, Jay and Bella,’ she says beaming with pride.
‘Am I allowed to say you don’t look old enough?’ I ask.
‘Any day of the week,’ she says, laughing. ‘Thank you. And you? Kids?’
‘No. Just me. I also haven’t had a holiday in ages,’ I tell her. ‘This was supposed to be me breaking bad workaholic habits.’
Zara reaches out for my hand. Like her, I’ve put a lot of eggs in this basket, taken a chance on this, and it might have fallen at the first hurdle. I scan her face wondering if she’s feeling the same disappointment but she smiles, shrugging it off.
‘Well, Chloe… it’s not like we’re going to get straight back on a plane, eh?
We can get on the internet, find a hotel maybe?
If you don’t mind holidaying with a fortysomething old woman?
’ she says, half laughing. ‘We’ll organise our own retreat.
We’ll find the equivalent of a Boots and get some face masks in.
Hell, we’re in Spain. I’m sure there are plenty of men who look like Pedro Pascal who’ll do yoga with us if we pay them. ’
My nervous smile melts a little at her immense positivity. I’m not sure how we’d find such a man, but at least I have a newfound friend in this adventure. A friend equivalent of a meet-cute maybe?
She scans the arrivals hall as flocks of holiday-goers arrive and head out to waiting buses, taxis and car rental desks. ‘I mean, it can’t just be the two of us waiting on a Lorenzo, no? Because if that’s the case, that’s a shit scam.’
We turn to look around for others who may be waiting – lost lonely people who look like us – but nothing.
There are police. Do I approach them to explain my predicament?
I booked a holiday advertised on a flyer and there’s no one here to meet me?
I also see a large family obviously waiting for someone.
Should I speak to them? Hey, there seem to be a lot of you?
Would you like to adopt us? But I mostly see joy; faces relaxed and happy to be somewhere different, to have arrived at their destination safely with holidays and adventures ahead.
Except for one dubious-looking character hanging around the entrance of the women’s toilets.
He’s standing there holding a neon-pink trolley bag, and a tote which doesn’t really go with his cargo shorts, T-shirt and cap.
His lower left arm has a tattoo winding around it.
My first thoughts? Thief. Or maybe he’s waiting for his girlfriend or wife based on the way he tries to peek into the loos every time the door swings open.
Or maybe he’s a perv? The trolley bag is an excellent ruse.
A woman eventually comes out and I watch as she takes deep breaths, wiping the sweat from her brow.
She wears a baggy T-shirt and cycling shorts, her face is flustered and she puts her hands to her knees for a moment.
The man puts an arm on her back, looking concerned, taking her rucksack and offers her a tissue and a drink.
His eyes read kindness, the way they search for hers, the way he smiles and reassures her as she tries to wipe something off her T-shirt.
Ah, he’s actually a nice man, she’s lucky to have him.
She goes to hug him, resting there for a moment, and then they part.
She takes her rucksack back and he offers to pull her bag as they start walking.
Towards us. Now. Until he’s right in front of us. Hello?
‘I’m really hoping that you are Zara and Chloe,’ he says, giving a broad, charming smile, framed with stubble.
I pause for a moment, my jaw slack.
‘Pedro?’ I mutter. There is a vague resemblance. I’ve only had five hours sleep though so maybe I’m hallucinating to feel better about the way this holiday has started.
Zara looks at me and laughs. ‘Or Lorenzo?’
‘Actually, it’s neither. I’m Ben. The business – the villa – is called Lorenzo’s. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.’
I can’t stop staring at him as he puts a hand around the other woman’s shoulders. ‘Jess here was first out and she was feeling unwell. I’ve been helping her which is why I’m late. I’m really truly very sorry.’
The woman he was helping steps forward. ‘It’s true. I arrived in a mess because of flying and the heat and, yeah… I’m sorry for holding everything up, ladies.’
I see Zara’s shoulders drop as her stress levels lower.
There’s something about this man which sings trust and likeability, but I’ll admit the name thing is throwing me.
He also does look a lot like Pedro Pascal, almost too much.
A young Pedro with a good jawline. I keep scanning down to his legs because he has excellent calves.
I don’t know if I’m being rude with all the gawping.
Maybe he’s one of Pedro’s relatives? If so, who the hell is Lorenzo?
I’m glad he’s here, but my doubts linger.
‘Thank God. Chloe and I were just about to find ourselves a hotel and a drink, am I right?’ Zara says, turning to me.
‘Is it just the three of us?’ I ask Ben, looking around.
‘Yes. It’s… we like to bring an element of exclusivity to the retreat,’ he says, seeming unsure, ‘so it will just be you three ladies in the villa.’