by Anna Bell
I beg to differ on both counts because my hair’s going to turn into a frizzy mess the moment the humidity hits it and his hair has been gelled into oblivion and I’m pretty sure that quiff will be as waterproof as Gore-Tex.
I open the door and I plunge my foot into a puddle and the water seeps into my ankle boot. I walk around to the front of the car, shaking my foot.
‘Trust you to find a puddle,’ he says in a such a smug way and I hope that I’m wrong about his quiff and that it flattens like a pancake.
He walks round to the boot and opens it. I reach to get my bag but he holds my hand back. ‘Oh no, sweetie, I’ve got these.’
I roll my eyes. I’d forgotten that the act starts all over again. The car ride here wasn’t too bad, but mainly because I didn’t have to act like I was in love with him.
I look up at the redbrick hotel and the ivy creeping up over it. It looks beautiful highlighted by the warm yellow lights, even in the pouring rain. It’s so romantic and I wish I was with someone that I cared about. Aidan pops into my mind and I try to push him out again.
We walk up the steps and push open the heavy door and Luke takes my hand. We’re instantly greeted by the staff at the front desk with a warm, welcoming smile.
‘Good evening,’ smiles the receptionist.
‘Hello, I’m Luke Taylor and this is Izzy.’
‘Izzy and Luke,’ says a guy running out of the office. ‘You’re here.’
He claps his hands together before holding them out to us.
‘I’m the manager, Grant. I was the one who asked Russell to contact you.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, offering my hand which he shakes.
‘So I’ve given you lovebirds our most romantic suite. You’re going to love it – it was redone in the spring. All our honeymooners go mad for it, especially the amazing baths.’
‘Ooh, I love a good soak,’ I say, thinking that I can hide in the bath to get away from Luke for an hour or two.
‘I’ll take you up there personally, I want to see your faces,’ he says, leading us upstairs.
‘This staircase is gorgeous.’
I run my hand along the wooden banister. I love the way that it bends round. It’s the type that you can imagine a princess gliding down.
‘Everyone loves this staircase, especially brides,’ he says with a not-so-subtle wink.
Luke had better not be listening. I take a look over and luckily he’s swiping on his phone oblivious.
‘You know, we’re not only an extremely popular wedding venue but proposal venue too. There aren’t many couples that come here for a romantic weekend away and leave without a ring on a finger, eh, Luke?’
He looks up from his phone and Grant repeats himself.
‘Did you hear that, honey?’ he says, much to Grant’s delight.
I’ve only just met him but I can imagine what he’s thinking: if we got engaged here it would be an advertiser’s dream.
I look at Luke’s giant case and hope that it’s not hiding a very tiny ring box.
We head into a lift to the top floor and find ourselves in a corridor with only one door.
‘And here’s your suite.’
He flings the door open and we walk into an amazingly opulent room where everything vies for my attention: the modern four-poster bed, the ornate fireplace, the large sash windows that I bet when it’s light will reveal sweeping views across the countryside, and the his and her bathtubs in front of the window right in the middle of the main room.
‘Nice, huh?’ says Grant. ‘The bathtubs are such a hit with everyone who stays here.’
Luke is nodding. ‘I’m sure we’re going to love those, aren’t we, honey?’
I nod, disappointed that I’m not going to have my lazy soak after all. I pan round the room until I get to the bathroom.
‘Whoa,’ I say, unable to find the words. Instead I point at the glass wall that separates the bathroom from the bedroom. The toilet is parallel to the bed and the shower faces it.
My stomach starts to pinch in revulsion.
‘We find it transforms the bathroom space, makes it so light,’ says Grant.
‘Clever idea,’ says Luke, seemingly unfazed.
‘It’s quite a bold statement, isn’t it?’ I say, almost hyperventilating. ‘I mean what happens if you’re in the early stages of your relationship?’
Or not even in one?
‘I’m sure that isn’t an issue for you two lovebirds,’ says Grant, dismissing my concerns.
‘And the bed,’ I say, ‘that looks a little small for double.’
When he said we had a suite, I’d imagined some super-duper king-size bed that would have felt like Luke and I were sleeping in different postcodes. Or maybe even a sofa that one of us could escape to, but there’s only a small chaise longue that would leave your legs hanging off the end.
‘We did initially test the room with super-king beds but the feedback was that couples wanted to come together on their break and they felt they were getting lost in the beds.’
‘That’s perfect for us, we love to cuddle,’ says Luke and I try not to outwardly cringe.
‘Perfect. I knew you guys were going to love it. Now, I’ve got a whole list of activities for you to try tomorrow, but tonight we can offer you a table in the restaurant or perhaps you’d like room service instead?’
He’s hinting at every turn that all we’re going to do is have sex in this room. It’s making me want to escape.
‘Restaurant,’ I say and Luke nods.
‘Great choice. I’ll leave you to freshen up. I’ll book you a table, for what, 8 p.m.?’
‘That would be great,’ says Luke.
‘I’ll leave you the details of what you can do tomorrow and we’ll chat again in the morning and you can tell me your picks,’ he says, clapping his hands. ‘The photographer will be on site from eleven.’
He hands me the printout and I look down at it: clay-pigeon shooting, falconry, yoga, spa, horse riding. Looks like we won’t have to be trapped alone in our room trying not to watch each other go to the toilet. Hurrah.
Grant closes the door and Luke’s about to jump on the bed, but I manage to stop him.
‘We’ve got to take a photo of the rose petals on the bed first,’ I say, holding his arm back and pulling out my phone. There’s a red heart made of petals on the crisp white sheets.
‘How many roses do you reckon it took to make those – one, two? That’s pretty cheap but effective.’
I don’t even bother to roll my eyes anymore; I’ve become immune to him mining every romantic trope for exploitative purposes.
My stomach pinches again and I rub my belly.
‘You OK?’ asks Luke. ‘You’re wincing.’
‘My tummy feels a little bit weird.’
I’m hit again by a pain that’s sharp and sudden. I look over to the toilet. Oh no. Do not do this. Not yet. I was hoping that I could hold off going to the loo until I went down to dinner, but my stomach growls angrily and I doubt I could even make it down to the lobby.
I run into the toilet and panic washes over me. I hastily grab a towel and hold it up with one hand whilst pulling my pants down with the other, in a mad scramble to get on the toilet. What happens next isn’t pretty and I look behind my towel to see Luke lying on the bed. Oh God. He must have heard every little noise. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that we’re not a real couple. I’m guessing this particular scenario would be a pretty embarrassing moment in any couple’s relationship, perhaps I should be grateful I already feel slightly ashamed when I look at him.
My arms holding the towel start to shake and I feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. My stomach lurches again only this time it’s different – I’m going to be sick. With no time to think about it, I wrap the towel round my waist, flush the toilet and immediately vomit.
When the wave of vomiting finishes, my head starts to throb and I shuffle backwards so that I’m leaning back against the col
d hard wall tiles.
There’s a knock on the glass. I look up expecting it to be Luke checking on me but I spot his green face and I know what he needs to do. I flush the loo again and pick up the bin before crawling towards the door.
‘Holy shit,’ he says.
‘Uh-huh,’ I say as I shut him in. Luckily he’s got the TV on and it’s up loud so I don’t hear anything. Instead I sit huddled on the floor hugging the bin, trying to ignore my stomach pains.
When eventually it becomes unbearable I crawl towards the bathroom.
I shield my eyes with my hand before knocking on the glass.
‘Hang on,’ shouts Luke and I hear the flush going. ‘Can you wait?’
‘Nope,’ I say, reaching up for the door handle.
‘OK, come in,’ he shouts.
He barely makes it out of the bathroom when I reach the toilet.
It’s a long time before I get back up again and I put the towel round my waist and splash water on my face at the sink, before I sink down onto the floor. It feels safer to stay within reach.
Luke taps on the glass and comes in and washes water on his face too.
‘Bloody hell, those spring rolls,’ I say, my stomach churning. ‘I’m guessing eating prawn spring rolls that have sat out of the fridge in Tupperware all day wasn’t the best idea.’
My body goes into spasm as my stomach cramps.
Luke hands me a cold, wet flannel and I pop it on my clammy forehead.
‘What are we going to tell Grant? We can’t tell them we’ve got the shits.’
‘He did drop enough hints about us being curled up in our love den. I’ll ring down and tell them we’ll order room service for dinner. We can take photos of it and he’ll never know we didn’t eat it.’
‘But what about the photos on Insta stories?’
‘We’ll fake them. It’s not like we don’t anyway. We’ll run the baths and put loads of bubbles in, and we could have another photo of us in robes and face masks,’ I say. I feel too rough to worry about all the deceit.
‘Did you bring face masks?’
‘No, but we can put that moisturiser on our face,’ I say pointing at the decanter on the side. ‘Oh hang on. Get out, get out, get out.’
Luke moves like lightning. I no longer seem to care that I’m flashing my bits through the glass as I scramble back onto the loo.
When I eventually make it out, Luke’s on the phone.
‘Uh-huh, yeah, room service. No, it’s OK, I don’t think the chef needs to do that,’ he says going greener, presumably at the mention of food. ‘OK, if you insist. And could we also get some fizzy water? Uh-huh, of course Prosecco,’ he says, wincing. ‘Great. Thanks.’
He puts the phone down and rolls over on the bed.
‘Oh bloody hell, here I go again,’ he says, dashing to the bathroom.
I close my eyes and wonder if this is karma for what we’re doing.
Chapter 21
Spending the night in the world’s smallest double bed with Luke was always going to be testing, but throw stomach issues and a glass-walled toilet into the mix and we truly had the night from hell. Any time one of us got to sleep, the other one would have to go to the loo. There only seems to be one setting on the bathroom light, which is extremely bright, and thanks to the wonderful glass doors it was on, it lit up the whole room like Blackpool Illuminations. We did try at one point to only use our phone torches but given that the room is pitch black and our bellies gave us approximately twenty seconds of warning, there wasn’t time.
My alarm goes off and I roll over to see how Luke’s feeling. Only instead of seeing him on the other side of the bed, I find myself staring at him naked in the shower. I quickly roll over to face the windows. At least I only saw his bum.
I pick up my phone and check out my metrics to see how we got on yesterday. We’ve had lots of views and people like our smug hotel selfie that we took in our matching robes. If only they’d seen us simultaneously throwing up ten minutes later.
I also see that I’ve got a message from Aidan on Whatsapp.
Aidan:
Hiya. Hope all is well with you. Do you fancy coming with me to walk Barney this afternoon?
My heart sinks. I wish I could. I type quickly back.
Me:
I’d have loved to, but I’m on a work thing this weekend. I’m free next Sunday?
Aidan:
Next Sunday works for me. Look forward to entertaining stories from what happened with your colleagues!
I hate the fact that I’ve lied to him, but at least the one up-side of this food poisoning is that I can honestly tell him I spent the whole time holed up in the room.
Me:
;)
Luke comes out of the bathroom with a tiny towel wrapped around his waist.
‘Why have you got a goofy smile on your face?’ he asks.
I put the phone down on the bedside table and try to make my face look normal.
‘Just texting a friend.’
‘Oh,’ he says, nodding. ‘I have those types of friends.’
I want to tell him that Aidan’s not a friend with benefits, but I can’t even bring myself to talk about him in front of Luke.
‘Just make sure you don’t get too friendly; we don’t want to blow this thing,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I say, thinking back to the moment of our near kiss. ‘How was your shower?’
‘It really helped. I’m starting to feel a lot better, mainly because I don’t think I can possibly have anything left to come out of me.’
‘Tell me about it.’
There’s a knock at the door and Luke saunters over to open it.
I pull up my sheets, not for modesty, but to conceal the fact that I’m wearing button-down flannel pyjamas. I brought my least sexy PJs with me.
‘Ah, thanks,’ says Luke as a waiter wheels in a little trolley of food.
‘Compliments of Grant,’ says the waiter. He actually bows his head and walks back out of the room.
The smell of fresh coffee wafts over and it doesn’t make me want to heave.
Luke pulls up the silver dish lids and reveals a platter of smoked salmon and eggs and one of fresh fruit.
‘Cover the salmon,’ I say, putting my hand over my mouth.
‘How about fizzy water for breakfast?’ he says, pouring me a glass.
‘Perfect,’ I say. ‘What a bloody waste this is. It’s all free and we’re drinking water.’
‘Maybe we’ll get better as the day goes on.’
‘Maybe.’
‘So,’ he says, going over to pick up the list of suggested activities. ‘What are we going to do today? Clay-pigeon shooting?’
‘I don’t know if I’ve got the energy to wield a shotgun over my head. How about the falconry? We’ll just stand there and the bird will do all the work.’
Luke winces.
‘I hate birds.’
‘You hate birds?’
‘Uh-huh. I don’t want one flying round my head. What if it landed in my hair?’
‘Because it would mistake your quiff for a perch?’
‘Very funny. Because I don’t like them. They’re like rats with wings. And those beaks and the pecking. No, I don’t like them at all.’
‘OK,’ I say, thinking if we were a real couple how much I’d be finding out about him this weekend. ‘No birds. What else is on the list?’
‘Archery.’
‘Too physical.’
‘Yoga.’
‘Too physical.’
‘I’ll save myself time: tennis, horse riding and cycling are all out then.’
‘Is there anything left?’
‘Spa.’
‘Now you’re talking.’
‘Spa it is. I’ll phone Grant and let him know.’
‘I’m so delighted to show you both our new spa,’ says Grant, walking us through the area. ‘We upgraded it last year and it has wonderful reviews now. You’re going to come out feeling like new people.’
Being a Saturday, the large pool area is full of people, relaxing in their robes on sun loungers, swimming and lazing around in the pool. I’m looking forward to lying down and indulging in one of the glossy magazines that are stocked around the room.
‘Now, here’s Bill, the photographer,’ he says, introducing us to a middle-aged man. He shakes our hands and we all mutter a few pleasantries.
‘The exciting news is, I’ve managed to squeeze you in for a couple’s mud session,’ says Grant.
‘Mud?’ I squeak. ‘I thought we were just going to spa.’
‘You are, but you simply must try the mud, it’s unlike anything you will have experienced. I’ll introduce you to Jacinda who’ll be looking after you. Bill will come along and take photos in the middle too,’ he says, bundling us into a room where there’s a tall thin woman smiling at us.
‘Hello, I’m Jacinda, so lovely to meet you. I’m going to be guiding you on this journey today.
‘First of all you’re going to get into the bath and once you’re settled, I’ll come in and apply the mud to your face and shoulders. I’ll come back in again and press a hot towel on your face. And then once you’re ready to get out, you’ll shower and then I’ll transfer you into the nap room.’
‘Nap room,’ I say, homing in on the one part of this that sounds good.
‘Yes, you’ll be so relaxed that you’ll need it. Now, I’ll leave you to get in yourselves. The best thing to do is to sit on the edge of the bath and lower yourself in gently. You’ll probably need to help each other.’
‘Is it going to be OK to go to the spa after if my bikini’s all muddy?’ I ask.
Jacinda tinkles with laughter. ‘Oh no, you need to be naked in the mud. It’ll stain your clothes.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says, reacting to my look of horror. ‘I’ll make sure you’re decent before the photographer comes along.’
Jacinda bows much like the waiter and leaves us alone in the room.
‘I’ve always wanted to go mudding since I watched Suits,’ says Luke.
‘Me too,’ I say, staring at the mud. It’s much thicker and gloopier than the glossy mud from the baths in the TV programme.
‘You know it’s funny that people say that I’m like Harvey Specter.’