Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
A table comes free just as we arrive at the Mexican restaurant a few doors along. The interior is long and narrow with a back wall lined almost entirely with brightly lit tequila bottles. Tables and chairs run the length of the left-hand wall and on the right is a long counter, behind which four chefs are busy preparing food. It’s buzzy.
We order nachos, which are brought to the table right away, and we’ve already demolished most of them when our drinks appear a few minutes later. I went for lemonade, but Ash chose a pineapple margarita and my eyes must go round at the sight of the pineapple and lime ice lolly poking out the top because he plucks it out by the stick and offers it to me.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask, my fingers itching to take it.
‘I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.’
I accept the gift and lick the remnants of his drink off the end. ‘Oh wow. You have to try.’
I casually brandish the ice lolly in his face and then go completely still when he catches my hand in his to hold it steady. His lips part and his tongue sneaks out to take a lick, and the bolt of attraction I feel almost knocks me sideways.
‘You all right?’ Ash asks with a frown, releasing me.
I have no idea what my face just did.
‘I’m fine.’ I pick up my lemonade and take a gulp, acutely aware of the phantom impression his touch has left behind. It’s like he’s still holding my hand.
‘Really?’ he presses.
‘I’m fine,’ I repeat, avoiding looking at him.
‘Please don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. If you don’t feel well and you want to go back to the hostel, just say. I don’t mind.’
I drop the ice lolly back into his drink and bury my face in my hands.
A moment passes. ‘Um. I’m at a bit of a loss now.’ His lovely lilting voice is laced with worry.
I laugh into my palms and wearily lift my head. ‘You’re so nice.’
‘I’m too nice?’ he asks with confusion.
‘Not too nice. You are nice. I’m not used to it.’
‘Not used to what ?’ Now he looks alarmed.
‘People caring about what I want.’
He stares at me. His expression is disconcertingly grave.
I sigh and reach over to pluck the ice lolly out of his drink again. I’ve sobered up enough to know that I’ll be ordering one of these for myself before long, but I’m tipsy enough to still have my guard down.
‘Part of the reason I was upset earlier was because my parents have booked a flight home for me before I’d decided I was definitely giving up on interrailing,’ I explain. ‘They only knew I was considering it. I know I should be grateful. I am grateful—’
‘No,’ he interrupts, shaking his head. ‘They should have checked with you first.’
I’m taken aback by how serious he looks.
‘It’s just that … What if I’d changed my mind?’
‘You still can,’ he states.
I laugh at him. ‘You really don’t know my parents.’ I said the same thing earlier, but I can’t stress it enough.
The server brings over our tacos. We thank him in Portuguese. Neither of us makes a start on eating.
‘Do you get along with your parents?’ I ask.
He rubs his jaw. ‘My mother more than my father. He’s always so busy at work, he doesn’t have a lot of time.’
‘Does he make time for your brother, seeing as he’s going into the family business?’
‘Yeah, he does,’ he confirms wryly, reaching for a taco. ‘I don’t really care, though, because at least I get to have a career in the space sector. My dad used to say, “There’s speculation, wild speculation and astronomy,” and then I went to uni and did a degree in it.’
‘Physics too, though, right?’
‘That’s the part he tells his friends.’
‘Sounds like we both have complicated relationships with our parents.’
He lets out a caustic laugh and takes a ferocious bite of his taco.
‘I think I take after my grandparents more than my parents,’ I muse, retrieving a taco for myself. ‘They were salt of the earth – Londoners born and bred. My grandfather was a carpenter and my grandmother was a seamstress.’
Ash regards me with interest, warmth returning to his expression as I tell him about how they built the family business from scratch, designing and making quality sofas and coffee tables that they sold out of a little shop in North London.
They taught my dad the family trade, but my father had bigger ambitions, and after meeting my mother at business school, the two of them scaled up the business and took it online.
It’s hard to explain how I can be impressed by my parents’ achievements and yet also deeply resent them for the way they went about growing their business. I don’t tell Ash that they remortgaged the house to send me to an elite private school so they could make more connections. When I think about how much of my happiness they were willing to sacrifice in order to social-climb their way to success, I could cry.
I still remember the misery of my fourteenth birthday. I’d wanted to go to the cinema with Stella – just Stella, the one person I felt truly comfortable around – but my parents insisted on throwing me an excruciating whole-year party. I’d only started at my new school six months earlier, after they pulled me out of the state school I’d been attending with Stella, and I had no friends. Kids still came anyway – nowhere near as many as we’d catered for, but it was a free party and I think some of their parents were curious to see what my mum and dad could pull off after schmoozing their way through various social events.
I know Dad finds it draining to suck up to the people he rubs shoulders with – he was raised with no airs and graces, so he’s had to adopt them. These days he sounds nothing like the dad I grew up with.
Charming the upper class comes more naturally to my mother, and you’d think she’s having the time of her life when she’s in the midst of it, but I’m pretty sure fawning over them makes her bitter too.
I wonder what my parents would think of Ash, and then I stop wondering because I know. He’s salt of the earth, like my grandparents. My mum has always been snobby about my dad’s family and even Dad turned up his nose at his parents towards the end of their lives.
But I loved them to bits. They died a few years ago, two months apart, and their loss still feels like a punch in the gut.
They would have liked Ash. That matters to me more than anything.
‘So what are you going to do?’ Ash asks. ‘Will you catch that flight home?’
‘There’s no way I can’t now. My parents would kill me if I wasted their money.’ They have plenty going spare, but they count every penny. ‘And anyway, I’d decided to quit for a reason. I’m not even sure I could psych myself up to travel on my own again,’ I add flatly, getting my lipstick out of my bag; red takes some serious upkeep.
Ash’s attention is fixed on my mouth as I reapply.
‘Where else were you planning to go?’ he asks.
‘I was thinking about Seville, Madrid and Barcelona, and then along the coast of the South of France before heading to Italy.’
‘What if we made a plan to meet up in Madrid?’
I hesitate. And then I feel as though someone has lit a sparkler inside my stomach.
‘Are you serious?’ I ask as he leans in closer, his eyes shining.
‘Completely. We get on, don’t we?’
‘I thought you liked travelling on your own.’
‘I’d rather travel with you.’
I cannot contain myself as I break out into my biggest, brightest smile.
‘Can I think about it?’ I ask, not wanting to make promises I might not be able to keep.
‘Of course,’ he replies with a grin, knocking back the remainder of his margarita.
Later that night, after we’ve been to another bar that sells dangerously cheap beer, we head back to the hostel in a tuk-tuk decorated with plastic yellow flowers.
I squeal as we turn a corner at speed.
Ash laughs across at me. ‘Give me your phone,’ he says as the wind blows my hair into a tangled mess.
I do and he opens up my camera app and aims the lens at me, clicking off a few shots.
‘Your turn.’ I waggle my hand at him.
Our fingers overlap as we exchange the device, and once more the tiny touch feels impactful in a way that is entirely unbalanced.
He leans against the side bars, his elbow propped on top of the bench seat, his upper body twisted towards mine. His shirt is flapping against his collarbone even more violently than earlier and he’s holding back his shaggy hair with his free hand, giving me a small smile that feels as though he’s bringing me in on all his secrets.
‘What time do you want to set off for Sintra in the morning?’ he asks when we arrive at the hostel.
‘Eightish, maybe?’ I follow him into the lobby, staring at his broad shoulders. ‘I need time to stash my rucksack in a locker.’
‘I’m leaving mine at the train station in Sintra so I have it handy for tomorrow night.’
‘What’s happening tomorrow night?’ I ask with confusion.
‘I’m sleeping on a beach west of Sintra.’
‘You’re not coming back to Lisbon?’
‘Only to catch my train up to Porto the next day.’
I hate that we’re going our separate ways.
But what if it’s only for a week? Could I find the strength to stand up to my mum and dad and continue interrailing with him instead of flying home? My insides vibrate with a strange kind of effervescence at the thought.
‘Do you want to head straight to the Quinta da Regaleira?’ he asks, still talking about Sintra.
‘Yeah, I’d love to go first thing, before the queues get too long.’
‘You might have to wake me up so I don’t oversleep again,’ he says as we climb the internal staircase.
‘I can if you like, but how will I know where to find you?’
‘My dorm is on this floor.’ He nods ahead to a door off the first-floor landing. ‘I’m in number—’
His voice breaks off.
‘Number what?’ I ask.
‘I actually can’t remember.’ He looks endearingly unsure of himself. ‘It’s the fourth bed along, I think, top bunk. I’ll have to give you my key so you can let yourself in, but let me check the number.’
He unlocks the dorm room and pushes open the door with a heavy whoosh. I follow him inside.
As with my girls-only dorm upstairs, it’s a long, dimly lit space. Stylish red numbers are painted on the white wall to our right, running from one to twelve, with a row of offset top bunks accessed by ladders. Grey curtains have been drawn across each of the bedroom spaces and it’s quiet – people are either sleeping, or they’re all still out on the town.
‘It’s this one.’ He drags back a curtain that has the number nine painted on the wall above it.
‘Let me see what you’ve done with the place,’ I joke, climbing up the ladder and peering in at the single bed with its clean white duvet. ‘Ooh, very minimalistic.’
I vaguely wonder if it’s appropriate as I climb the rest of the rungs, but I know instinctively that Ash won’t mind. There are metal shelves holding personal items at the back and there’s a phone-charging station, although it’s empty. Ash’s rucksack is stashed in the corner. His bed suddenly looks irresistibly inviting and when I flop down, I discover that his pillow smells of coconut. It reminds me of something and as he face-plants on the pillow next to me, I remember what.
‘Body Shop!’ I exclaim in a tipsy whisper.
‘Body Shop?’ he mumbles, turning his face towards mine.
‘You use coconut wax from the Body Shop,’ I state with the confidence of Sherlock Holmes.
‘How did you know?’ He looks perplexed.
‘I can smell it on your pillow. I used to use it myself.’
His face breaks into a delightful smile. ‘I love your hair,’ he says, and his eyes flare momentarily, as though he’s surprised that just slipped out.
‘I like yours too,’ I reply with a grin, reaching out to finger one of his locks and drunkenly marvelling at how soft it is. ‘It’s not frizzy at all.’
He sniggers and I suddenly realise how ridiculous this conversation is.
‘Shh!’ someone hisses from an adjoining bed.
We freeze and stare at each other like rabbits caught in the headlights and then crack up, trying to stifle the sound in his pillow.
We’re not successful because the next shush is even louder and angrier. I press my face against Ash’s shoulder and he wriggles and lets out a high-pitched squeal. I’m silenced for all of the two seconds it takes for him to tell me ‘I’m ticklish!’ and then we’re both done for.
We’re crying with laughter, clutching his pillow to our faces, trying to get our hysteria under control. I have no idea how we manage it, but eventually we do, much to the relief of whoever we’re annoying, I’m sure.
Ash rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand as he smiles at me. I mirror his body language. His eyelashes are wet with tears, his nose is pinker than ever and his hair is back to being a hot mess. I must look a state and I don’t care.
‘I love your laugh, so much,’ he whispers. My insides light up. ‘I really love it,’ he says, and it’s adorable, the way he’s looking at me. ‘The way you do that little giggle or snigger – I don’t know what to call it – that little noise you make, right at the end of a laugh … It’s like a … a … a sniggle ,’ he decides.
I crease up with silent laughter before asking, ‘A sniggle ?’
‘Yeah, a sniggle.’
We’re both still laughing at each other, only a little, but his eyes are full of an affection that I can’t believe I’ve earned in only twenty-four hours. The way he’s looking at me … He likes me.
And I like him. So, so, so, so much.
I scan the shape of his face, the sharp line of his jaw that I have a sudden urge to trace with my fingertip. He still looks clean-shaven. I wonder when his stubble will grow back and how many days he’ll leave it before he has another shave. I won’t be around to see.
It’s only when his eyes meet mine that I realise they were fixed on my lips a second ago. I am suddenly acutely aware of every millimetre of space he’s taking up.
I’d advise against getting intimate with anyone who you’re not in a serious relationship with. Trust takes time to build.
I startle as the all-too-recent words of my counsellor come back to me.
‘Right, then,’ I say abruptly, sitting up. ‘I’d better get to bed. What time do you want me to wake you?’
Ash blinks slowly at me as I look over my shoulder at him. I have to press my lips together to keep from smiling at how sleepy he looks right now.
‘Er, seven forty-five?’ he says uncertainly, passing me his key card.
‘You only need fifteen minutes?’ I ask with surprise.
He lifts a shoulder.
‘Okay, seven forty-five it is.’ I shuffle down to the end of his bed and turn around to climb down the ladder.
My gaze travels back along the length of his long, tanned legs, past his broad chest to his face. His head is propped up on one hand, his carelessly dishevelled hair falling into his beautiful eyes as he watches me leave.
I force myself down the last remaining rungs before I do something I might regret.