Summer Loving

by Lise Gold et al.

“Photoshop?”

  “Yes, we use Photoshop to get bookings before the hotel has been built. To show people what it would be like.”

  “None of those photos were real?”

  “No, I’m sorry. As I say, your booking should never have been made. This was a glitch. Didn’t you check for reviews?”

  “Check for reviews? You’re sorry?” Phoebe repeated. “What am I going to do? I… I don’t have anywhere to stay.”

  “I will issue you a refund. It should take no more than seven days to get into your account,” he said, smiling at her as if everything had been solved.

  Phoebe felt cold fear nip at her. She was in a foreign country with very little cash, a maxed-out credit card, her hotel hadn’t been built, and she had no backup plan.

  “That… that’s not good enough,” she said.

  “It is all I can do.” He shrugged apologetically.

  Not a First Class Start

  Erica Johnstone let out a relieved sigh as the plane’s wheels touched the tarmac. First class on a budget airline was not in any way first class as she knew it.

  Unfortunately, very few flights were available for the dates and times she required. She’d been forced to travel with a company that had previously been a part of her stock portfolio but never a part of her travel plans.

  Apparently, sitting in one of the first ten rows and being provided with a free alcoholic beverage made the experience first class, a fact that no one had told the screaming child in the seat behind her.

  She unbuckled her seatbelt while the plane was still taxiing to the terminal building, an act of defiance which resulted in a glare from the woman beside her.

  Her holiday could not begin soon enough. It had been a hell of a first half of the year. Sales were down in her company, her ex-wife had gotten remarried, her brother had been nominated for a business award that should have been hers, and she’d spent five months finding a new assistant.

  Her previous assistant had up and left with no notice whatsoever. Incredibly unprofessional and utterly baffling. Erica had struggled to find a reason for the sudden disappearance. She wasn’t the easiest person to work for, but the young woman had always managed and seemed content until suddenly she was gone.

  Something had clearly changed, and her assistant had run away, ignoring all calls and emails from both Erica and the HR manager of the company.

  That administrative disaster had led to four months of searching for an adequate replacement. The problems that had caused her still gnawed at Erica. Or perhaps it was the feeling of being abandoned. She tried to not dwell on it too much.

  Fresh air filled the stale cabin and she stood up, retrieving her Ted Baker satchel from the overhead locker. A small queue had formed while the other supposedly first-class passengers hovered around the doorway.

  “Good grief,” she muttered under her breath.

  “No need to be in a hurry, love,” the man in front of her said. “You’re on holiday after all.”

  “Am I?” Erica asked him.

  As far as she was concerned, she wasn’t truly on holiday until she had disembarked the plane and gotten away from the cheap polyester seat covers that had caused her hair to stand on end.

  “You will be after a couple of drinks,” he reassured her.

  Thankfully, the queue started to move and anything else he had wanted to say was swallowed up in the desire of one hundred and fifty people to get off the aircraft.

  It was an hour later when Erica finally broke free of the airport. Thankfully her luggage was one of the first pieces to arrive on the conveyor belt and the luxury car hire company already had her Porsche waiting for her when she got to the desk.

  The petrol tank was full of fuel, and a thank-you card and a bottle of champagne sat in the passenger seat.

  In honesty, she expected that level of service as she had been using the same company twice a year for the last fifteen years, ever since she bought the house in Lanzarote.

  She cranked up the air conditioning in the 911 and settled herself into the soft leather seats. After a few quick moments, she’d adjusted her seat and mirrors to the optimum position. She always hired the same car overseas as she had at home for convenience.

  Before setting off, she’d connected her phone to the Bluetooth system in the car. Her foresight paid off almost immediately as she received a call from the office.

  “Jenny, do I really need to remind you that I’m on holiday?” she drawled. “Is the fact my office is empty and the lights turned off not reminder enough?”

  “I’m sorry, Erica. It’s just that Jason called and wants to know if you’ll be able to move the next head-of-department meeting to a Friday,” Jenny replied.

  Jenny was a fraction above useful, but not quite reaching the heights of helpful. She was not the best personal assistant but definitely not as bad as what Erica had been through at the start of the year. Jenny had managed to retain her job simply because the thought of having to go through the hiring and training process again exhausted Erica. Anger continued to gnaw at Erica that she even had to find someone new.

  “If we must, why does he want to change the schedule?” Erica asked.

  “His daughter is having an operation,” Jenny explained.

  Erica knew there was no answer to that and swallowed her sarcastic reply. “Fine, rearrange the schedule and contact everyone.”

  “I will. Thank you, Erica.”

  Before Jenny had a chance to say anything else, Erica ended the call. While she knew it was unlikely that she’d ever have a holiday without hearing from work at all, she would have liked a few hours to herself at the very least.

  “Siri, set a reminder. Get flowers sent to Jason.”

  Her iPhone promptly replied that it had done what she had asked. Some might have farmed out such a job to an assistant, and Jenny was certainly capable of ordering flowers, but Erica liked to keep on top of such things personally.

  Wine was most definitely in order. She knew there was wine in the villa, her housekeeper would have seen to that. But Erica knew just the vintage to toast her first night on the island.

  It would just require a short detour into town.

  We Meet Again

  Phoebe dragged her suitcase behind her as if it were a pallet of bricks. While super convenient and easy to manoeuvre around the polished floor of an airport, the luggage was a beast to haul around the busy and often cracked streets of Puerto del Carmen.

  She was sure she’d pulled a muscle in her shoulder, hefting the case up and down kerbs and in and out of hotels. And it seemed like there was no end to the long parade of hotels who couldn’t help her.

  Most hotels had no availability at all; the few that did wanted upfront payment at heavily inflated prices. Phoebe had enough money for one or maybe two nights, but she was reluctant to spend so much for a couple nights’ accommodation and then end up in a much worse situation when she had no money and nowhere to stay.

  She’d called her credit card company to explain the situation and request a temporary extension of credit. The woman in the call centre had been kind but firm when she explained there was nothing she could do. She offered to call Phoebe when the refunded money had cleared, but admitted it was likely to take several days.

  Now Phoebe was making her way down some of the busiest streets, walking in and out of each and every hotel she came across and hoping that her luck would change.

  She heaved the case over some broken paving slabs and let out a frustrated breath. Her holiday wasn’t starting well, and she could feel her emotions building inside of her. Now was really not the time to lose her self-control and cry, but she wondered how long she would be able to hold on.

  Suddenly, she was surrounded by a group of young British men. She could tell before they opened their mouths that they were British. There was something about being able to sense your fellow countrymen when abroad, like a pheromone in the air. In this case, that pheromone was cheap deodorant spray and lager.

>   “Hello, love, you all right?” one of the men asked.

  The words were polite and friendly, but the tone was suggestive and the way he leaned against a lamppost put Phoebe immediately on edge.

  She kept her head down, not making eye contact and wishing for them to leave as soon as possible. “Yes, thank you,” she mumbled.

  “You’re on holiday, you should smile,” another of them said.

  She gave a half-hearted grin and tried to walk on. The group allowed her to walk but continued to surround her as she did. As they all walked in one big, uncomfortable mess, they quizzed her.

  “Not enjoying the weather?”

  “That case heavy enough for you? What are you, here for a month?”

  “Give me your number.”

  Phoebe stopped dead and looked up at them. “Look, just leave me alone, okay?”

  She’d hoped that her anger would encourage them to step back and leave. Instead it made them smile and laugh at her outburst.

  “Wow, what’s wrong with you? Bra on too tight?” the first man asked, his gaze pointedly at her chest.

  “There was a problem with my booking and I’m trying to find a new hotel, so if you’ll excuse me,” she explained briefly, hoping that some common decency would filter in and they’d leave her alone.

  He didn’t move. “If you’re looking for somewhere to stay, I have space in my room.” He leered suggestively.

  Phoebe realised they weren’t going to leave her alone. She was in a foreign country, surrounded by people who could probably help her, but it was clear they’d much rather objectify and terrorise her. She had no money and nowhere to sleep, and she was utterly exhausted and afraid.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. She felt utterly helpless and defeated.

  One of the men took hold of the handle of her suitcase. “Come on, we’ll take you back to our place. It’s okay.”

  “I don’t think she wants to go with you.”

  The men jumped at the interruption and immediately broke their tight circle around her.

  Phoebe quickly wiped at her tears and looked in shock at her saviour. The voice had sounded familiar, but she didn’t believe for one moment that it could actually be.

  But it was.

  Erica Johnstone, Phoebe’s former boss, stepped into the middle of the circle, staring each man down with a withering look.

  “Fun, is it?” she demanded coldly. “To drive a young woman to tears? Enjoy it, do you? Makes you feel good about yourself, does it?”

  The men quickly started to deny their actions and shake their heads. In a split second they had gone from cocky and arrogant to scared little boys.

  “Each and every one of you should be utterly ashamed. You picked on and intimidated a clearly frightened young woman, ganged up on her, and reduced her to tears. I cannot stand the sight of you. Any of you.” She glared one last time before finishing with a harsh, whispered “go.”

  The men scattered quickly, almost falling over themselves in their eagerness to get away.

  Phoebe wiped at her tears some more, desperately trying to look presentable in front of her ex-employer. The one she’d walked away from. The one she’d been hopelessly in love with for months. The one who had just appeared out of nowhere and saved her.

  “Phoebe,” Erica greeted her haughtily. “We meet again.”

  “I…”

  “You?” Erica looked down her nose at Phoebe.

  Phoebe didn’t know what to say. On an ordinary workday she had needed at least thirty minutes of preparation every morning before speaking to her boss. Seeing her out of the blue in a foreign country wasn’t going to go well.

  Erica waited for Phoebe to reply, but she was too shocked and shattered to come up with anything.

  “Get in the car,” Erica instructed, turning around before Phoebe had a chance to reply.

  She watched as Erica walked towards a Porsche that was haphazardly parked nearby. A police officer was writing a ticket as Erica approached, but one withering look from her had him thinking better of it and tearing the ticket in half.

  Erica had a presence that people didn’t argue with, which was why Phoebe found herself grabbing the handle of her case and following her former boss, almost on autopilot.

  My Hotel Doesn’t Exist

  Erica sat in the driver’s seat and tensed her hands over the steering wheel. Phoebe had struggled to put her case in the tiny boot of the car and was now attempting to place it in the back seat beside Erica’s.

  Erica’s heart felt like it was attempting to break out of her chest, such was the strength with which it thudded against her ribcage. One moment she had been driving along the main road, having picked up a couple bottles of wine. The next she saw a flash of very familiar long, brown hair being surrounded by a mob of grotty young men.

  For a moment she had considered leaving Phoebe to her fate, but that thought died as quickly as it emerged in her consciousness. In a flash she was pulling her car up and marching towards the impromptu gathering to see what was happening.

  Hearing Phoebe’s distressed and tearful tone had torn at any shred of calm Erica had. She’d ploughed into the group with every intention of ripping the thugs limb from limb if they had laid a finger on Phoebe. The thought of such a thing kept her in a state of high agitation.

  Phoebe finally finished rearranging everything and sat in the front passenger seat, clicking her seatbelt into place and seemingly attempting to make herself as small as possible.

  “Having a lovely holiday, are you?” Erica asked sarcastically.

  Phoebe unexpectedly burst into tears. Erica hesitated, not sure what to do. Emotions were not her strong suit, and the awkward situation between them made that all the worse.

  “I’m screwed,” Phoebe whispered. “My hotel doesn’t exist.”

  “Doesn’t exist?” Erica questioned, thinking for certain that she’d misheard.

  “It’s not been built.”

  “Why did you book a hotel that hasn’t been built? Didn’t you check the reviews?”

  Phoebe glared at her with a force that Erica equally envied and recoiled from. She’d never once seen Phoebe angry but believed she now had a small insight into what that would look like.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose,” Phoebe clarified harshly, tears still streaming down her soft, rosy cheeks. “It was a mistake. They took the booking when they shouldn’t have. A computer error, apparently. And now I have nowhere to stay and I have no money. And all the hotels are booked, or they want payment up front, which I don’t have because the refund will take ages to come through. And I haven’t eaten. And I don’t know what to do. And then those boys—”

  Erica held up her hand to stem the flow of tearful explanation. “I see. Well, it seems that you’ll be staying with me until you can find something more appropriate.”

  Erica started the engine, slipped the car into gear, and lurched out into the road. She didn’t know why she was offering Phoebe such kindness, didn’t want to dwell on the fact too long either.

  Thankfully, Phoebe wasn’t arguing. She just slumped into the passenger seat and stared out the window.

  Erica’s hand tightened on the steering wheel again as she fantasised about throttling every one of the young men who had upset Phoebe so much.

  The House

  Phoebe couldn’t believe her luck. It was equal amounts of good luck and bad luck. Good luck in that she had been rescued from a sticky situation; bad luck that the person who had rescued her was literally the last person in the world she wanted to see.

  This was all causing her to attempt to melt into the passenger door of a Porsche 911 in the hope she would become invisible. And, for some reason unknown to her, she was also attempting to control her breathing to such a degree that she was sure she wasn’t getting enough oxygen.

  Erica looked furious. She was squeezing the steering wheel so hard that Phoebe worried it would snap.

  So, Phoebe had decided to not do anything that woul
d make things worse. Like moving. Or breathing. She felt like a stone statue, pressed against the soft leather and the cold, exposed metal of the door, hoping that Erica might just somehow forget she had picked her up and would leave her in the car like a forgotten bag of shopping.

  She was obviously clutching at straws. Or was losing her mind due to the lack of oxygen.

  In a risky move, Phoebe glanced at Erica.

  She bit her lip and quickly looked away again. It was impossible, but somehow Erica was hotter in her casual summer wear than she was in her designer business suits. She wore tight jeans, sunglasses, a white shirt with a popped collar and the sleeves rolled up, exposing muscular forearms.

  Phoebe tightly closed her eyes and focused on keeping her breathing low and steady. It had taken months of hard work to get her crush on Erica under control. She’d had to leave her job when seeing the woman every day became too much for her to take.

  Even in her new role, she spent much of her time checking social media for any sign of Erica. Or bugging her ex-colleagues for any Erica-related gossip. Subtly, of course, because she didn’t want anyone to know that she was utterly and completely obsessed with Erica Johnstone in a way that had taken her by surprise and dominated her life.

  It had taken two long months before Phoebe finally went one full, entire day without thinking about Erica. The moment had been a relief and had led to an eye-opening realisation about how obsessed she had been.

  Now she was sharing a car with her crush and all her hard work was floating away into the Canarian evening.

  She needed to get away from Erica as soon as possible, although she wondered how far she could get away on a small island. Suddenly, something occurred to her, hitting her like a frying pan.

  “I… didn’t know you had a place in Lanzarote,” Phoebe dared to say.

  For someone who had been Erica’s PA for over two years and was so completely head over heels for her that she even knew the name of Erica’s childhood dog, it seemed bizarre that she wouldn’t know.