The Birthday That Changed Everything

by Debbie Johnson

  I took a deep breath, and tried once more. A miracle occurred – I got my sail up, and managed to keep it up, clinging hard to the handle. Okay, it might have been called something like the boom; I’d already forgotten the jargon. I don’t know how it happened – it was a complete fluke, like scoring a 147 in snooker when you’ve never picked up a stick before.

  ‘Mo! Look!’ I shouted, terrified I’d fall off again before my mentor could witness my moment of glory.

  He was knee-deep in water, helping one of the other physical incompetents, but turned round to see what I was up to.

  A broad grin split his round face in two, and he made a thumbs-up gesture with both hands. ‘Go for it, Sally! The bay’s your oyster!’

  With hindsight I suspect he didn’t mean quite that. What he probably meant was ‘don’t go further than ten feet away from me under any circumstances, but I won’t bother saying it as you’re bound to fall off again any second now.’

  I wasn’t listening anyway. I was too busy congratulating myself. I could do it! I could windsurf – and I was the first person in the beginners’ class to actually be up, up and away. Unbelievable. First actual laughter with Allie, now a physical triumph. Things were looking up.

  It was probably the most self-satisfied I’d felt since I got through childbirth without an epidural. If only Simon could see me now. And Ollie and Lucy. Maybe I’d get a certificate, or a prize, or possibly some sort of championship jersey and a trophy…

  I was gliding along, sun glinting from the sail as I went, cutting my way through the waves, moving the mast backwards and forwards to catch the breeze.

  This is a piece of cake, I was thinking. I must be a natural – I’d found my sporting forte at long last. After being crap at everything from darts to horse-riding, I’d finally discovered something I could do. I was now anticipating further lessons back home, possibly competing at international level.

  Pride, of course, is the traditional forerunner of a fall. Or, in my case, the onset of a panic attack. I realised, when the learners back on the shore started to look like tiny colourful ants, that I’d travelled quite a long way without really noticing what I was doing. It felt as if I was miles away. Halfway to the nearest Greek island at least.

  Despite my obvious natural talent and the international windsurfing career that beckoned, I had one very big problem: I had absolutely no idea how to turn this thing around. I could head in only one direction – towards a watery death.

  The instructors were back there, dealing with all the others crashing into each other and almost drowning, and I was out here. On my own. Far, far away.

  Would they send out a search party when it got to dinner and I didn’t show up? Would Lucy and Ollie notice I was gone at all until they needed their passports? How far away was the next Greek island anyway?

  I made a few weedy attempts at twisting the sail around in the opposite direction, but that didn’t work. I dipped my foot in to use as a kind of rudder, but one size-five foot against the whole ocean wasn’t much use. My arms were getting tired. My legs were starting to feel like rubber. And I was so scared I thought I might wee my pants some time soon. Where was David Hasselhoff when you needed him?

  I’d just decided to jump for it and try to swim my way back, somehow dragging the board with me, when I heard a shout coming from behind.

  ‘Sally! You okay? Can you tack?’

  I recognised the voice straight away. James. Bloody typical. Of all the gin joints in all the world…I had to splutter into his. Drowners can’t be choosers, though, so I yelled back: ‘No! I can’t tack! I don’t even know what that is! Help! Send out a distress flare or call the coastguard or something!’

  ‘Just jump off,’ he yelled, ‘and swim to me – I’m not far behind you. Don’t panic – you’re going to be fine.’

  Easy for him to say. He was probably an expert on tacking, whatever the hell that meant – and I was presuming at that stage it was nothing to do with dressmaking.

  I jumped in, holding my nose, fighting back a surge of panic as I splashed down.

  James was in a small white boat, leaning over the edge and holding out his hands to me. He had his lower body stretched out over to the other side for balance.

  I doggie-paddled my way over, choking afresh each time a wave hit me in the face, until I was by the side. He grabbed hold of my hands and pulled me up. I landed in a wet, undignified heap in the middle of the boat, with what felt like a wedge of wood poking up between my bum cheeks.

  ‘Ouch!’ I shrieked, wanting to leap up but only capable of throwing myself forward on to all fours. James was sitting directly in front of me, trying not to laugh. He was wearing form-fitting cycling-type shorts, and a second-skin top that made his muscles look as if they’d been coated in shiny black paint. None of which made it easy to hate him.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, perching myself on the opposite ledge. ‘I think you might have saved my life…or at least saved me a long swim. I kept going and going and I just couldn’t turn round…’

  ‘Tack,’ he said, ‘that’s what you do to turn. I’m impressed you made it this far on your first lesson, even if you did get stuck – most beginners just fall in for an hour.’

  ‘I know!’ I answered, wringing out my hair, ‘I’m made up with myself! Not sure I’ll be doing it again any time soon, though. I had a few minutes before you turned up when I was petrified. I don’t think a life on the ocean wave is for me really.’

  As we spoke he was untying some rope, pushing a stick around, and doing something that made the sails move. As you can tell from my masterly use of the terminology, I am a sailing expert.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I bet you could sail this. I could show you how.’

  Yeah, I thought. And I bet it was like golf or tennis in the movies, and he’d have to put his arms round me in the process.

  ‘Erm…what is this anyway? A little yacht?’

  ‘This is a dinghy. Small enough to sail single-handed, but big enough for a few more if needs be. Jake loves them – next year he might even start going out on his own.’

  Even a six-year-old was better at water sports than me. Why wasn’t I surprised?

  ‘Okay, well, good for him. I need a bit of a rest, though. Give me a few minutes to dry out and then maybe I’ll try. And what do we do about the gear?’

  ‘Don’t worry, they’ll nip out in the speedboat and collect it later. They’ll just be glad you’re back. I’d like to pretend I’m your knight in shining armour, but they’d have fetched you before long. So relax – take your few minutes,’ he said, a gentle smile curving those luscious lips. He went back to doing things with ropes and sticks and sails, and I did as I was told.

  I stretched out my legs as far as I could, closed my eyes, and let the sun soak into my skin. It was so quiet out here. Serene, in fact, if all you had to do was act like a cat on a window ledge on a summer’s day.

  We were both silent for a few minutes, and I could feel from the stable bobbing of the waves that we were staying put. Perhaps he was taken aback by my beauty and unable to move. More likely I was supposed to do something to help him.

  ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’ll take you out on a bigger boat. Then you can bring a blanket and just stretch out in the sun all day like that…’

  I opened my eyes sharply and looked at him. That sounded blissful – and dangerously flirtatious.

  ‘We could always take Jake if you need a chaperone,’ he said, a hint of challenge in his voice. ‘Anyway, come on, help me sail this little yacht back to shore – it’s easy,’ he said, before I had chance to answer.

  He pointed at the stick. ‘This,’ he said, ‘controls the tiller. You use this to steer, and turn around. When you’re sailing a dinghy, you use your bodyweight as ballast, which is what stops it from capsizing. That bit there’s called the dagger board. You sat on it earlier. You can see the sails yourself, and they’re attached to the boom at the bottom. Watch out for it, if you don�
��t pay attention it can whack you on the head.’

  Great. Another way to injure myself. I was obviously fated not to get to shore safe and sound.

  He did some strange slow-motion action that involved him feeding the stick – sorry, the tiller – behind his back, pulling on the ropes, and moving from one side of the boat to the other. All of which he did with total ease, of course. Bet he was never picked last for the netball team.

  He tried to make it simple, but I was distracted by a million and one things: exhaustion, stupidity, and the lazy curl of lust in my tummy as I watched him moving and listened to him speak.

  ‘Right – your turn,’ he said.

  ‘No. Sorry, but I’m knackered. I need you to be a knight in shining armour for a bit longer.’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that,’ he answered, laughing, ‘how could a man resist? I’m going to need you to move around when I tell you to, though, okay?’

  As we made our way back, he mentioned that Jake’s mother took him sailing when he stayed with her for holidays. Hmm. That meant he had Jake full time, which wasn’t what I’d assumed…I’d assumed, in all honesty, that he was a weekend dad. Shagging his way through his middle-life crisis Monday to Friday, and going to McDonald’s on Saturday.

  It sounded as though I’d been wrong. I hated that. Before I could find out any more, he moved quickly on to another subject.

  He asked about Ollie, who he’d met that morning snorkelling, and about Lucy, who he hadn’t met and who I hoped he never would meet, for his sake. He didn’t ask about their father – showing me the same discretion he misguidedly expected himself. Probably, knowing how close these Blue Bay people were, Allie had already filled him in on the situation.

  I was pleased if she had. It saved me having the whole conversation again – I was here to try and forget Simon for a while, or at least relieve the pressure of thinking about him twenty-four hours a day. I’d have been happy if she’d issued a press release about it, in fact, if it saved me having to describe my loveless state to anyone else.

  Instead, we talked about Jake. About his school life. About Dublin. And, against my better judgement, I realised that I was starting to relax around him. Even enjoy his company. It was a mix of his obvious competence, his drool-inspiring voice, and the fact that he looked like a walking piece of erotica.

  But I still knew that – no matter how attractive the packaging – he was a man. I was still an emotional wreck, and jumping into bed with someone really wasn’t going to help at this stage, no matter how well defined their abdominal muscles.

  I could still enjoy window-shopping, though, I thought, stretching my arms up into a long, languid stretch and allowing myself a few naughty thoughts. I fear I might have even purred, or at the very least sighed.

  ‘Shit!’ he shouted, out of the blue.

  I snapped to – he was sitting with his head in his hands, blood trickling from between his fingers. The boom was swinging, a matching patch of red shining in the sunlight.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he said, clearly in pain. The wound was a few inches above his hairline; like most scalp cuts, it was bleeding like crazy. He tried to wipe some of the blood out of his eyes, smearing it over his forearm.

  I moved across to take a look.

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘Stay there or we’ll go over. I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.’

  He’d taken quite a bang, but didn’t seem on the verge of passing out or falling overboard. Which was lucky for us both; we’d have been floating adrift for eternity if it had been up to me to captain the ship.

  ‘I’ll get us back then I can sort this out. Can’t believe I got caught by the bloody boom,’ he said.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Erm, I got momentarily distracted,’ he said, nodding towards my chest. I looked down, having the awful feeling I knew exactly what I was going to see.

  Yep. Two large brown boobs, enjoying the sunshine a lot more than they’d enjoyed Marcia’s bloody bikini.

  Chapter 13

  We splashed back to shore as soon as the boat was safe in the shallows.

  ‘Come on, up to my room,’ I said, taking his hand, ‘and don’t argue.’

  ‘Okay…but is this really the time?’ he asked, looking shocked as I led him along.

  ‘Oh shut up – your virtue’s safe. I’m not planning to seduce you, I just want to get a better look at that cut.’

  We made our way up the stairs to my room, stopping to answer a few enquiries as we went. James’s inner macho man kicked into action. He stood there, looking as though he’d been slaughtering a pig, insisting there was nothing wrong. Men and their egos. A constant source of amazement to me.

  ‘Can I tell them what happened?’ he asked as we climbed the stairs.

  ‘Do, and I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Okay. But that’s not fair – I’d feel like less of an idiot if I could at least tell the blokes. One look at you and they’d all understand why I lost it…’

  Even under the circumstances – gaping scalp wound, all my fault – a comment like that made my heart skip a beat. My bruised ego was lapping it up like double cream. Pathetic.

  I unlocked the door, having first knocked on Lucy’s room to see if she was still around. No answer. She must be out sacrificing goats in the woods.

  ‘Come on in, ’scuse the mess,’ I said, leading the way. I went over to the windows to throw open the curtains, and turned back to tidy up the bed. I needn’t have bothered – a messy duvet was the last thing anyone would notice in this particular room.

  ‘Oh, the little cow,’ I said, stopping dead and gazing around in shock. My room had been transformed into Mr and Mrs Smith’s house of horrors – a showcase for their amazing Range of Rubber. Stupidly, I’d left the interconnecting door open at a time when I was number one on Lucy’s shit list. Served me right really.

  Suck-Me-Dry Sally was fully inflated and propped up on my pillows, handcuffed to the wrought-iron headboard. She had Black Beauty between her plastic legs and was looking understandably shocked.

  The butt plugs were lined up on the dresser in order of size, next to a giant jar of lubricant that said Slippery Dick on the label. Both my bedside cabinets had vibrators on them, as though I kept them there for night-time emergencies.

  ‘Interesting room you have here,’ James said, deadpan.

  ‘None of it’s mine,’ I snapped back. ‘It’s all from the suitcase that got swapped. My cow of a daughter has been in here doing this. And it looks like the cleaners have been, too, so they’ll have me down as a pervert for the rest of the holiday as well. I’d like to throttle her scrawny neck…’

  ‘I’m sure the cleaners will have seen it all before. And I won’t hold it against you – I was a teenager once myself; I know what they’re capable of.’

  It was so the right reaction. Not a sign of the nudge-nudge wink-wink I’d expected, even with severe provocation. I pulled myself together and told him to sit on the bed. The man was dripping blood on to my carpet, for goodness’ sake – I could kill Lucy later.

  I went to fetch my first-aid kit from the bathroom. I have the world’s best first-aid kit. Occupational hazard of being a mother, a teaching assistant, and an almost-doctor.

  I held back his blood-clotted hair and examined the wound. I gently cleaned it with some warm water, and probed as softly as I could to see how deep it was. James sat stoically, wincing only slightly as I poked around.

  ‘You’ll live,’ I said. ‘It looks much worse than it is. I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but I’ll dress it and you’ll need to wear a very attractive bandage for the next day or so. Keep your head away from blunt objects, don’t swim for a while, and avoid salsa dancing because your balance might be off. If you feel sick or sleepy, let me know.’

  I bustled around, getting gauze and a long strip of bandage, then stood in front of him, tilting his head slightly so I could work at a better angle.

  ‘You seem pretty good at all this – are you
a nurse in real life as well as fancy dress?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said, trimming off some tape, ‘but once upon a time I was going to be a doctor. Lucy came along and it never happened. Can’t say I’d be much good at open-heart surgery, but the basics like this you never forget.’

  ‘Why don’t you go back and finish your training?’ he asked as I leaned in closer to apply pressure to the dressing.

  I couldn’t answer for a few seconds. My bikini was still damp and the air-con was on full, giving me goosebumps. I could feel his warm breath on my breasts as he spoke. His lips were only a whisper away, and the unexpected heat on cool flesh was amazingly erotic. All I’d need to do was lean forward an inch or two…

  It was an odd moment to feel turned on, but I was, and I was sure it was obvious. I was seriously considering seeking medical help for these inappropriate rushes of lust. I wasn’t usually like this. It could be early menopause.

  I reminded myself to breathe, and to talk.

  ‘Well, that was a long time ago. Lucy’s sixteen now. My training is probably next to useless these days,’ I replied, feeling my hands tremble slightly as I secured the dressing and started to wrap the bandage.

  My patient was quiet. All I could hear – and, deliciously, feel – was his breathing against my chest.

  ‘Am I hurting you?’ I asked, pulling away slightly to look at his face. His eyes were glazed and he was struggling to focus. Maybe he had concussion after all.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he said, ‘and I’d probably wouldn’t say this if it wasn’t for the head injury…but even through that bikini, your nipples look exactly like the tops of Walnut Whips…’

  Yikes. Time to get him out of my room right now, or I was going to have to carry out a full physical.

  Chapter 14

  Breakfast on the Gaza Strip again. But that morning, there seemed to have been something of a ceasefire.