Nick bursts out laughing. ‘You’re such an eager student. Let’s watch something.’
He puts the Danish movie on and I use the opportunity to let my hair down – and jam the Absolut miniature deeper into the seat crease, where it cannot be spotted.
I try to arrange myself in an attractive pose. A tricky task, as my grey baggy pj’s are nothing short of unflattering.
‘We could call the butler and ask him to arrange some celery sticks and hummus for snacks, what do you think?’ I suggest, pushing the bowl of popcorn and the melted ice cream under the sofa, unbeknownst to Nick.
Louise
Saturday. St Fergus. Al Hasan Suite. 7 am.
The next morning, I wake up exhausted. I look at myself in the mirror. The bags under my eyes are dreadful. I hope the spa can book me in for a facial when Nick goes out for his meeting. I didn’t sleep a wink. I spent the night harbouring the hope Nick might slip into my bed to ravish me, and therefore kept fixing my make-up and prettily arranging my hair on the pillow so he might see a perfect picture of me when he would walk in. But he never did.
The Danish indie movie was the dullest thing I had ever watched, and I couldn’t even distract myself with the popcorn I had stashed under the coffee table. I spent the whole two hours trying to read the tiny subtitles and stealing glances at Nick, who was completely engrossed in the narrative. He commented at the end it was one of the most philosophical films he had seen in a while and I had no choice but to heartily agree.
A gentle knock on the door jolts me out of my grogginess.
‘Come in!’ I call out with forced joviality.
Nick pokes his head through the door, then walks in, dressed for a workout.
‘Good morning! I thought I’d let you sleep in a bit. I’m going for a jog. Fancy joining me?’
What I fancy is throwing the bedside lamp at his head. Is he taking the piss? I slept about two hours. The last thing I want to do is go for a run at seven in the morning. What I need is a long uninterrupted nap followed by very strong coffee.
‘Sure!’ I pipe up, jumping out of bed. In the glaring light, my red lace nightie seems indolent and inappropriate. ‘Give me five!’
I obediently put on my Lululemon tights and racerback bra and slip on my brand-new Nike running shoes. I thoughtfully rubbed them down with a wire brush and mud to make them look well worn. I tie my hair in a high ponytail and don my sunglasses before joining him in the lounge.
Nick grins from ear to ear. ‘A run will clear our heads. Let’s go!’
Louise
Saturday. St Fergus. Al Hasan Suite. 9 am.
I lie on the floor, arms by my side, palms facing upward. I want to sleep, die or both. My lungs feel ablaze. My legs are killing me. Even my arms are in pain. How is it possible? Doesn’t one run with one’s legs, not arms? Damn all those years of cigarettes and lack of exercise.
Outside was too hot so we went to the downstairs gym. I jogged along on my treadmill at low speed while Nick sprinted next to me. I had a stitch after three minutes and had to revert to walking, while lifting small hand weights to give the impression of exertion. After a dignified quarter of an hour on the running machine, I moved to a bike at the other end of the gym where Nick could not directly see me, making sure to pick up my pace whenever he turned around.
I would have got out of the session unscathed had it not been for Nick’s brilliant idea to do some strength training together. He gave me two-kilo weights – two kilos! Doesn’t he know I am a woman, not a bodybuilder? He had me do ten reps of ten of everything he could think of. Biceps curls, lateral raises, shoulder presses with squats – ‘Hips below your knees!’ – and jumping jacks – ‘Only ten! Eight! Six to go!’.
I could have killed him.
Hanging on was tough, but I somehow forced myself to until he took pity on me and ended the training bout. I’m optimistic he still doesn’t know what poor shape I’m in.
Nick now talks me through the yoga poses. ‘We are consciously resting. Inhale, exhale. Awaken within yourself. Feel yourself fully present. Peace flows like a river within you.’
My heart rate subsides and I close my eyes. I could doze off easily.
‘I like you like this,’ he comments, admiration in his voice.
I open an eye and shoot him a dubious glance.
Likes me like what? Red-faced? Sweaty? Smelly?
‘I mean, seeing such determination on your face. You’re so strong, Louisa. I think I’ve never met a student with so much drive.’
Nick jumps up to have a shower, leaving me deep in thought.
Did he say ‘student’? Is it really all I am to him?
The next few days are a whirlwind of physical activity which leave me completely drained. Kayaking in the mangroves in the National Park turns my arms into marshmallows. Dune bashing in four-wheel-drive SUVs and mountain biking in Shawka batter my ass till I can’t feel my coccyx any more. He even takes me on a two-day hike in the Ajar Mountains. Every morning starts with an hour-long training session, boot camp style, and meditation. We survive on protein shakes, wheatgrass and other various barely edible green and brown bits which should be left to non-human consumption. Nick is a touchy-feely person and we have lots of body contact – hugs here and there, pats on the back, but it all just feels friendly to me. We talk a lot, but mostly about my emotional and spiritual improvements, leaving no room for flirting.
It’s already the afternoon before I am due to fly back to the UK. My thoughts of seducing Nick are long gone. I live in a state of permanent physical exhaustion. I wake up at dawn to follow Nick’s military schedule and turn in early evening – at the same time kids are put to bed – when he goes off to meet his lawyers. I collapse as soon I lie down and sleep like a log. I was once too worn out to even shower, and I’m always too beat to bother wondering if Nick might ever join me in my room at night.
Louise
Wednesday. St Fergus. Al Hasan Suite. 6 pm.
We’ve just returned from a day trip to Dubai, where we skied in the indoor ski resort for hours. My legs are so sore that I want to drink a whole bottle of Bombay Sapphire and pass out.
I’ve brushed my teeth and am considering running a bath when Nick comes up behind me in the bathroom as I stand at the hand basin in front of the Venetian mirror.
‘Louisa…’ he whispers into my ear. ‘Do you know what happens when you push yourself past boundaries you thought you could never break through? You free yourself. The you that was always within comes out. Better, stronger, faster. But also more spiritual and in tune with the world around us. You are one of the stars in the sky, and the day you recognize who you really are, you will shine brighter.’
He peels off my T-shirt and lifts it over my head. I shiver, more from surprise than cold, and instinctively cross my arms. My sports bra is unflattering. I wish I had my Simone Perele push up. He carefully peels my arms down back by my sides and makes me study my reflection.
‘See how beautiful your soul is. Look past your body and see what’s inside. I can see you so clearly. The muscles you have built here’ – he puts both his hands on my biceps, making me tingle all over – ‘have made you stronger there.’ He strokes my forehead. I stand stock-still, wondering whether he’s going to kiss me. He has me in a close embrace and I can feel his chest muscles burning against the skin on my back. His face is unreadable as he gazes into my eyes in the mirror. He then pecks my naked shoulder and strides out, leaving me baffled.
Louise
Thursday. St Fergus. Al Hasan Suite. 7 am.
I am due to fly back to the UK this afternoon. The door creaks open at dawn as usual and Nick chirps, ‘Morning, sunshine! Ready for a last workout?’
My entire body aches, my arms burn, my legs throb. My mouth is dry and gritty as if I had partied all night. My eyes feel as though they only closed an hour ago. I give a dismissive moan.
‘Louisa, do you need a little while to get ready? Shall I come back in ten?’
My in
dignation flares up. Is he just using me as some lab rat for his exercise regime? He hasn’t given me a single sign of interest. Furious, I throw a pillow at him and bury my head under another one after screaming, ‘Piss off, Nick! I’m knackered!’
The door closes softly, and his steps fade away.
I failed at seducing Nick. Not that there was anything to entice anyway, the guy is some kind of fitness fanatic crossed with a Buddhist monk. No wonder he’s single.
I’m so irascible that I can’t snooze now.
Kicking off the sheets, I get up and stomp around the room in vexation. I throw all my clothes in my suitcase. I call the butler to arrange a limo to the airport and a very non-vegan full English breakfast with a Bloody Mary to be delivered by room service. I slip on my favourite pink Lycra tube dress, my Gazelles and my oversized Gucci shades. Add a layer of punch red lipstick and I feel like myself again.
As I’m about to leave the suite, I pause and scan the room with nostalgia. It seems ages ago I arrived in Abu Dhabi. I have no regrets. I gave it my best shot.
I down the last dregs of the bloody mary. I leave the bacon and sausages leftovers from my breakfast in sight, not bothering to hide anything, and a scribbled note on the coffee table simply saying, Goodbye, Nick.
Louise
Abu Dhabi Airport. Terminal 3. Noon.
Etihad Airways, flight EY17 to London Heathrow.
I’m waiting to board the flight. I checked in online earlier so had no opportunity to request not to be seated near children nor malodorous individuals. My carry-on bag is heavy and cuts into my palm. I survey my red skin and my chipped nails, when a familiar voice startles me.
‘You forgot something.’
This should be a romcom moment. Guy chases after girl at airport. Catches up with girl just before she boards her flight. Tells her they’re meant to be together. Happy ever after. Movie closing credits.
It doesn’t feel like one to me. I’m irked. I have wasted my time and heart on him. He led me on – just like I have been leading on Apollo and other men before him.
‘What now, Nick?’ I ask, arms crossed.
Unperturbed by my demeanour, he pulls out a square black box from his jacket pocket. He opens it and shows me a plain leather-strap watch with a silver face, blue dials and a little yellow moon. I might have been moved by anything set with diamonds, but I don’t even recognize the watch brand. Pointless present!
‘It’s a moon phase watch,’ he specifies encouragingly.
Does he really think I am going to remove my Jaeger-Lecoultre to put that thing on my wrist?
‘It will tell you about the tides and when the moon is full. Remember, the full moon is a crucial time in the lunar calendar. Emotions, negative as well as positive, are amplified. You should be aware of it, so you can harness its energy and make the most of it for your spiritual growth.’
Nick’s face radiates friendliness and candour. My chagrin eases despite myself. I grumble a thank you, take the moon phase watch and dump it in my handbag.
‘Love can mend your soul. Love yourself, Louisa. Go now. I’ll see you around.’
The final call for my flight is announced. Nick gently pushes me away. I have a million questions milling around in my head. I turn around twice as I walk onto the footbridge, but he just stands there, hands in his pockets, his smile indecipherable.
Chapter 11
The Incredible Hulk
The Incredible Hulk
Ingredients
30 ml Hennessy cognac
30 ml Hypnotiq liqueur
Stir together the Hennessy cognac and the Hypnotic tropical-fruit liqueur until it is the colour of the Incredible Hulk.
Pour over ice.
Serve.
Emily
Friday night. My flat. 11 pm.
What a night.
It started with the Dating Marathon which turned out to be a big disappointment. I then had to rush over to see Carla, who was in a pitiful state after the non-proposal debacle at the Victorian Room.
Carla’s now tucked in on the squeaky air mattress in my room. There’s a mountain of black bin bags full of her clothes piling up behind the sofa.
My mobile rings. I want to turn it off, but Jess’s call at this hour intrigues me.
‘Em! Are you doing anything? Could you please come over and stay with Mia and Molly just for an hour? They’re asleep – you can just watch TV or something. I’ll pay, double babysitter rate. I have an errand to run.’
‘An errand at this time of night? Like getting a haircut or picking up your dry-cleaning?’
‘No. Something else. Scott’s gone to the pub with his colleagues.’
‘Do you mean because Scott is out, you need to go out? Are you meeting someone, Jess?’ I ask her outright.
‘Yes!’ She then corrects herself, ‘No!’
A baby starts wailing in the background.
Jess grumbles, exasperated, ‘Molly won’t settle, that’s just my bloody luck. I need to calm her down before she wakes Mia. I’ll call you back.’
I tidy Carla’s stuff as best I can. It’s past midnight when I give up and decide to call it a night.
Carla is curled up on the air mattress on the floor in my bedroom, one arm folded under her head, the other clutching the quilt against her chest. Her pretty hair flows in loose curls on the pillow. Her elfin face is peaceful and naive. If she can’t find Mr Right, what chance do the rest of us have?
Emily
Saturday. 8 am.
The next morning, I text Jess and Louise as soon as I rise.
‘Toots, coffee today? Carla dumped Ben 4 good. V. depressed. For real. Need moral support xx’
Humph. Louise is in Abu Dhabi and Jess takes Mia to French class on Saturday mornings. Moreover, she’s possibly too wrapped up in her affair to meet up anyway.
Failing inspiration, I go out to fetch Carla some breakfast.
The late spring air is lovely, people are already out and about. I have a fleeting thought about MaddMaxx. How nice would it be to breakfast with him on a Saturday morning, on a terrace somewhere by the river? Full English for him, blueberry pancakes for me. We’d sip our cappuccinos together, read the newspapers, go for a stroll holding hands. We might even go kayaking on the Thames afterwards: MaddMaxx is the type to own a double kayak. Or I could get behind him on his bike and we’d go on a day trip to a quaint little village in Kent. The only issue is he still hasn’t responded to any of my texts. Shame on me, I did send two so far. OK, three. Lola would kill me if she knew. How terrible to think Khaleesi would never ever text first, and most certainly would never obsess about any of her subjects.
In the queue in Starbucks, my mobile rings again. I answer to the sound of traffic and children being tortured.
‘Jess? Are you driving?’ I ask without needing a confirmation.
‘Dummy! Dummy!! Mummeee!!’ Mia screams at the top of her lungs.
‘Whaaaa!’ Molly bawls, joining in.
‘It’s fine, my phone is on hands-free!’ Jess shouts over the noise. ‘Mia! Shush! Your dummy is on the bloody floor; you shouldn’t have dropped it! Molly, what’s wrong? Quiet, the two of you!!’
‘Where are you? What’s going on?’
‘I’m going to the shops. Just wanted to check with you if it’s OK to have some parcels sent to your address instead of mine? Will your neighbour take them in if you’re not home?’
‘Jess, you’re acting all weird! Why?’
‘Mummeee!!’
‘Whaaaa!!’
‘I don’t want Scott to know about them. It’s for, you know, his birthday surprise. Mia! I said SHUSH!’
‘You said it was for Father’s Day yesterday!’
‘Dummy Mummeee!!’
‘Whaaaa!!’
‘Mia! Molly! Shut up, for fuck’s sake! Em, just don’t open the parcels. I’ll swing by to pick them up when I get the chance.’
‘What’s in them?’
‘Mummeee!!’
‘Whaaa
a!!’
‘Em, I need to go, the girls are going crazy. Laters!’
I’m not standing in front of the sulking Starbucks waitress. I realize it’s been my turn to order while I was on the phone. The customers behind me give me daggers.
‘Next I said!’ the waitress booms.
‘Hi, two cappuccinos and four almond croissants please,’ I order in a very non-Khaleesi voice.
Emily
That night. London Batten Bridge Boat. 1 am.
Lola gets hold of my Tinder, contacts all the good-looking chaps in a one-mile radius and asks them to meet us at the party boat. No brains or wit required, the only requirement is to be Calvin Klein ad-worthy.
I would normally cringe but I couldn’t care less right now. The mojitos and the music have gone to my head. I’m a little tipsy and I’m having a whale of a time.
Lola is wearing a tiara, a tropical print playsuit, and her trusted Alexander McQueen Mod boots. She twerks on the lower stage next to the speakers, an aggregation of testosterone on the dance floor leering at her. I’m too self-aware to join her and stay safely tucked in a corner, contenting myself with watching her with benignity.
‘Is that your friend on stage?’ a guy standing next to me enquires casually.
‘Yes. That’s my toot.’ I expect him to ask me for Lola’s number. It happens quite a lot when we’re out.
‘Extrovert young lady.’
‘She’s wild. She’s my best friend.’ I mist over, emotional from too much rum.
We both stand in silence for a minute, watching the clubbers jump to the beat of the latest dance track.
He leans towards me and suggests over the noise, ‘Would you like to check out the upper deck? It’s too stuffy in here.’
I finally take a proper look at him. Tall, handsome, short crewcut, a lumberjack shirt – which somehow looks super-sexy on him. I stare blankly. Is he just using me to get to Lola?
#Toots Page 15