The Time of Our Lives (20 page)

‘You need your key card to make the lift work!’ Meredith urges, equally frantic but clearly not knowing entirely why.

‘Oh, bloody hell!’ I rifle around in my bag, pulling out lip balms, nail files, a shower cap I appropriated from our bathroom on the first day and a whole raft of up-market miniature
toiletries I brought with me from the plane.

‘HERE!’ Meredith leaps in, producing her card.

The door closes just as Harry is steps away and I hit a button – any button, as long as it gets me out of here.

I sigh with relief and flop back on the wall of the lift.

‘What the
hell
is going on?’ asks Nicola as the lift starts its ascent.

‘Harry is a
journalist
,’ I tell them both.

They look at each other, bewildered.

‘And the thing I’ve been dealing with . . . you know – the crisis at work . . . a journalist is trying to get hold of me.’

Nicola frowns. ‘So? The journalist who phoned last night was in London, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, but I’ve been told they’re probably using a stringer and last night . . . oh God, I blabbed.
Seriously
blabbed. He convinced me he was just being a good listener.
What a f—’

A loud ping interrupts me as the lift comes to a halt on the top floor. Meredith goes to step out.

‘What are we doing here?’ I ask.

‘You were the one who pressed the button,’ Nicola points out.

‘Did I—’

‘Oh, come on, can’t we have a look at the view now we’re here?’ says Meredith enthusiastically, but I grab her by the sleeve and yank her back.

‘I’m terrified of heights,’ I remind her. ‘Besides, Harry told me last night he was up on one of these top floors. I’m
trying
to escape him.’

I press the button and the doors close.

‘You’re not seriously suggesting he’s working on that story? Wouldn’t that be a bit of a coincidence?’ Meredith asks.

‘It’s not a coincidence,’ I reply, as we reach the third floor. I press the button again. ‘It’s anything
but
a coincidence.’

‘You think he’s following you?’

‘At the risk of sounding paranoid . . . yes. Although . . . maybe no. Oh, I don’t know!’

‘Why can’t you just accept that he fancies you and that’s why he’s interested in talking to you?’

I hesitate. For a flicker of a moment, I want it to be true. Then I remember how much of the conversation last night was dominated by my work, how much I ended up telling him, and how
suspiciously interested he was. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, I do!’ Meredith says staunchly. And, after a circular conversation that goes on for another sixteen floors – both up and down – I realise I’m getting
nowhere, and have to send them on their way.

I spend four hours incarcerated in my room. Four hours of praying for my phone to ring . . . and praying it won’t.

I try reading my book to relax, but typically fail to get beyond the first line. I scan the room service menu and cogitate on what I’d eat if calories were not a consideration and my state
of intense hypertension wasn’t now so bad that it’s killed my appetite anyway. I watch a Spanish version of
Bargain Hunt
and conclude that daytime telly is the fastest route to
brain rot the world over. Then I lie on my bed, staring at the silky blankness of the ceiling, before deciding enough’s enough. I am supposed to be on
holiday
, not in Wormwood
Scrubs.

I throw on my bikini, pack my beach bag, pull on my oversized glasses, and head out, torn between anxiety that I’ll bump into Harry and a certainty that I’ll lose my mind if I stay
in the room any longer.

I convince myself there’s every chance he won’t be around today; I have a hazy recollection that he said last night he’d be out on an excursion. And, even if I’m wrong,
all I need to do is avoid him.

Easy enough, surely?

I head for the private stretch of beach right outside the hotel, after sending Charles a text to tell him that if he or
News Morning
wants to reach me, they should try
my mobile first and I can be back in my room in three minutes.

As I cross the lobby towards the door that leads to the beach, a woman in front of me is heading in the same direction. She is wearing a see-through sarong, a microscopic cropped top and bikini
bottoms that are more bottom than bikini.

The contrast with own approach to beachwear today couldn’t be more acute: there’s my massive glasses, my massive hat and a kaftan thingy my mum bought me six years ago that is only
slightly more revealing than a burkha. I look horrendous, but this combo has at least one benefit: I am in disguise. As a tent.

I step out of the double doors edgily and scan the beach.

It’s quieter than the sun deck, with only one or two couples lying out under huge, white beach umbrellas. I am greeted by a beach
butler, who escorts me to a secluded spot beneath a gently swaying palm. He produces a towel as thick as a 15-tog quilt and flips it onto a lounger like a matador’s cape. He offers me a
drink, then something to eat, then enquires if he can adjust my umbrella, followed by a plethora of other suggestions that eventually forces me to thrust a tip into his hand just to get shot of
him.

I settle on my front anxiously, pull out my book and tell myself to relax. I
have
to relax. Relaxing is now an absolute MUST-DO.

‘
Here is a small fact . . .’

‘Helloo!’

I place my hand above my eyes and squint up into the silhouette of a man. ‘Um, hi,’ I reply, adjusting my position to avoid the blinding sunshine.

He appears to be in his early twenties and slim, bronzed to the colour of turkey gravy and with teeth so bright they must be visible from space.

‘I think . . . zis . . . I think you drop.’ He holds out the shower cap, the one from the room.

‘Oh . . . thank you,’ I say, hastily shoving it in my bag and making a mental note to stop collecting hotel toiletries, particularly since I’ve never used a shower cap in my
life.

I smile and settle down again.

‘
Here is a small fact . . .’

‘Do you mind eef . . .’ I look up and he’s gesturing shyly to the sun bed next to mine. My heart sinks, followed by a rapid feeling of guilt at being so antisocial, even if it
is
difficult to be gregarious when you’re near psychotic with anxiety.

But am I going to tell him I’d prefer to be alone, even if that’s true? Of course not. I’m British.

‘Not at all.’ I smile enthusiastically as he gestures to a beach butler, who appears with a towel.

He makes himself comfortable and stretches out, which makes him appear even more toned, in a reedy kind of way. Not that I’m looking. He’s far too young for me, even if there
weren’t a million other issues at play.

‘Here is a small fact . . .
’

‘Are you Eeenglish?’

‘Yes. Where are you from?’ I desperately want to go back to my book but have always suffered from this reverse type of Tourette’s, where I have no control over the polite words
spilling out of my mouth.

‘Italy,’ he replies. ‘Firenze.’

Florence. He’s from Florence. He’s just become 1,000 per cent more interesting.

‘I know Florence well.’

‘Really?’ he says softly.

I prop myself up on my elbows and study him, only then realising that he reminds me of Roberto in more than just the obvious ways. He’s got that good-looking-but-unassuming vibe going on.
Despite that, he looks almost intimidated by me, despite ploughing on with the conversation. I decide to show more enthusiasm.

‘That’s where my boyfriend was born,’ I tell him.

‘Oh,’ he replies, looking disappointed. ‘Are you ’ere with your boyfriend?’

‘Oh, he’s not . . . we’re not . . . sorry – I’m single these days.’

He perks up. ‘I ’ave never been to Barcelona before, ’ave you?’

‘It’s my first time. I haven’t seen much of it yet, though. Your English is very good,’ I add politely.

He looks ecstatic. ‘Reeally? You theenk? That means so much to me. It make me feel
so
horny to know that.’

I do a double take. ‘You mean . . .
happy
?’

‘Happy, happy – yes! I so happy.’

I smile. Then I return to my book.

‘
Here is a small fact . . .
’

‘’Ave you been on the entire of the beach?’

I look up. ‘You mean have I walked along the whole boardwalk? Not yet, but I might try it at some point.’

He smiles. He has a sweet smile, wide and amiable. ‘I would like to. It is my first day only here. But I love wanking. Wanking is my passion.’

‘Walking,’ I correct him.

‘Yes,
wanking
,’ he agrees. ‘My father always say, wanking is the best possible exercise. Wank
everywhere
if you can . . . in the summer, in the winter, in the
sunshine, in the night.’

‘
WALKING
is very good exercise,’ I reply, stressing the pronunciation.

‘
You
like wanking, too?’

I suppress a smile. ‘Oh, at least once or twice a week.’ When he grins, I realise how much his dark eyes look like Roberto’s. It makes my stomach flip.

‘You look sad,’ he says. ‘You not have a nice time on holiday?’

‘I’m having a lovely time,’ I reply, slightly defensively.

‘Good. Is very good.’

I smile and am about to try reading again, when my phone rings. I sit up in a cold sweat when I hear Charles’s voice.

‘Imogen, there’s been a change of plan. You’re on in fifteen minutes.’

After a brief conversation with my PR guru, it turns out a producer from the
Afternoon
programme,
News Morning
’s sister show, is phoning me in ten minutes
and counting. With
News Morning
threatening to scoop the
Daily Sun
,
Afternoon
somehow picked up the story too, and its reporters are determined to get in first. Which means
they want me live on the show. Not tomorrow morning. Not at some unspecified point in the future. But in
ten minutes.

Charles fills me in on a few questions they might throw at me. I write his suggested answers on the back page of
The Book Thief
, barely taking in anything beyond, ‘I’m here to
be as open and honest as possible,’ a line he suggests I fall back on if I feel flustered at any point. He thinks I’m joking when I tell him that might be the only thing I say.

With my heart thumping like the bass on a Motörhead album, I rip the page from the book, leap up, throw on my kaftan and grab my belongings.

‘Sorry, but I’ve got to run,’ I announce to my neighbour. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you.’

‘Yes,’ he smiles, sitting up to shake my hand. ‘I am erotic to meet you, too.’

I am racing to the lifts in the lobby, attempting to prevent beach paraphernalia tumbling from my arms, when I spot Harry again.
WHY
can’t I get rid of this man?
He’s by the lift, blocking the fastest route back to my room, which I have precisely nine minutes to reach.

I’ve homed in on the door to the stairs – my next best option – when he starts to turn around. At which point I plunge into the Ladies’ as they are the nearest available
room in which to take momentary refuge.

At least, I’d thought they were the Ladies’. But, as I glance around, the presence of five gleaming urinals would indicate otherwise.

‘Shit!’ I mutter, prising open the door a crack to see if Harry’s in the lift yet.

To my alarm he is walking in this direction. Even the man’s bladder is conspiring against me.

I stumble back and head for the nearest cubicle. I’m almost inside when my sunglasses clatter to the floor, but there’s no time to collect them. Instead, I stumble inside, lock the
door and, conscious that if my toes are visible underneath the door I’m busted, leap onto the rim of the toilet in an ungainly squat, while attempting to keep the hem of my kaftan out of the
bowl.

I hold my breath as he enters the room, walks directly to my cubicle and attempts to push open the door. It rattles threateningly . . . but stays shut. I cover my mouth with my hand and try to
silence my breathing.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, and tries the adjacent cubicle.

I squirm with discomfort, and not just because my calf muscles are physically shaking in this position. This was the man who, whether I liked it or not, set my pulse racing. Am I really going to
have to listen to him
on the toilet
?

On the plus side, if he’s locked in for a prolonged period, I can at least make my getaway. Unable to sustain the squat any longer, I shift my position a little on the loo, believing
I’ve been successful until I watch the last page of
The Book Thief
floating down into the toilet pan, complete with the sum total of my media briefing from Charles.

Harry blows his nose briefly, and I realise he’d obviously just popped in for some loo roll. Then the main door squeaks open and I breathe out silently, relieved that he’s about to
leave. But he is halted in his tracks by a ringing phone.

‘Harry Pfeiffer here. Hello, Ken, how are you?’ There’s a pause, then Harry continues. ‘I managed to get her by herself last night and think we’re nearly there. If
I can just pin her down on the details about the flight, I should have everything over to you earlier than deadline. Yeah, really.’ He laughs. ‘Of course I’m confident! It’s
fair to say this is one of the less demanding jobs I’ve been sent on.’

Less demanding?
Well, we’ll see about that!

I’ve just put my feet on the floor as he’s ending the call, when something horrendous happens: something far worse than losing my media briefing on the last page of
The Book
Thief
down the loo; something that makes that look like no big deal at all.

I drop my phone in the toilet.

It lands with an uncompromising plop, then sinks, bubbling to the bottom, the final ingredient in my cauldron of misery.

‘Arrrrgghhh!’ I don’t care if Harry hears me; the priority now is resuscitating it. And I know there’s only one way, if his advice after I dropped it in the fruit salad
was correct.