How was I going to explain to Squidge that I’d missed the most important moment of the whole trip?
‘ER, OLLIE . . .’
‘Yeah?’ he called back from the bathroom where I could hear that he was taking a shower.
‘What are you boys doing this morning?’ I asked.
‘Jamie wants to see the Majorelle Gardens. Apparently they’re fabulous. Mum and Dad are coming too. And then maybe one of the palaces. What are you girls doing?’
‘Not sure yet,’ I called back as I stepped into the corridor and scurried back to our room before he could question me any further. Whatever happens, I thought, I need to be as far away from Michael Bradley as possible. I’d let my guard down last night and I couldn’t risk letting it happen again.
‘Room service, ma’am,’ said a pretty Moroccan girl wheeling a trolley of food down the corridor and stopping outside my room at the same time as I did.
‘Thanks,’ I said and opened the door so that she could wheel the trolley inside.
I gave her a few dirhams and took the breakfast tray out through the open french windows and on to the little balcony that was adjacent to the room. The hotel was a lovely place to stay. It was right in the heart of the medina and such a surprise when you got inside. It was located on a busy bustling lane which was lined with shops and stalls but, once you stepped inside the huge gate-style door in the high wall, it was peaceful, cool and quiet, and more like a spacious private house than an hotel. It was decorated in the traditional Moroccan style with colourful mosaic tiles on the floors and walls to keep it cool and painted panels of wood up on the ceilings. The Moroccans call these type of houses riads, which means a house that doesn’t have a window looking out on the street but looks inwards to a central courtyard with a garden instead. This one had a garden and a pool in the middle. Cat and Becca loved it.
We’d opted to share a suite even though Dad said that we could have one each but we all wanted to have a Moroccan sleepover. We’d stayed up until three o’clock in the morning talking about the party and the boys and who fancied who. Becca is definitely leaning towards Henry (judging by the snogathon they had on one of the balconies) and I reckon that even with Ollie here, Cat has taken a bit of a shine to Jamie. I don’t know if she realises herself yet. She spent a lot of the evening dancing with Ollie but she sat next to Jamie at dinner and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her laugh as much in anyone’s company apart from Squidge’s. I hadn’t told them what I’d felt while hiding with Michael. I felt that if I told anyone, it would become more real whereas if I kept it to myself, I could pretend that it hadn’t happened.
Yesterday had been confusing with Michael. I couldn’t deny that there was something there between us and I knew that he felt it too. He was majorly fanciable, there was no denying that. I remember when I was little and he used to come over, I used to feel like a fan when they see their pin-up celebrity. That hadn’t changed but it didn’t mean that I fancied him more than Squidge or regretted that I couldn’t follow things up with Michael. I liked both of them but Squidge was my boyfriend and I wasn’t going to cheat on him just because he wasn’t here and Michael was.
Cat and Becca had both gone down to breakfast in the dining room but I’d decided to have it in our room because I didn’t want to bump into Michael. My plan was to avoid him for as much of the trip as possible. I would hang out with the girls today while the boys did their sightseeing. This evening, I’d stay in the hotel when everyone went to the Fantasia night. And tomorrow, I’d go to Essaouira as I’d heard that the boys were going the opposite way and going up to the foothills of the Atlas mountains. And then it would all be over. I’d fly back to Newquay with Mum, Dad, Meena and the girls. And Michael would fly back with Ollie, Jamie and Henry on the London-bound plane as they had to be back for school there on Monday morning. Sorted. No damage would be done. No need to tell a lie to Squidge.
I lifted the silver covers off my breakfast to find a plate of fruits (melon, apricots, kiwi), a plate of cheese and a basket of croissants. Also on the tray was a cafetière of coffee, a small jug of milk and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Squidge would have loved this. Sitting here in the sun on a private balcony in this lovely hotel looking out at the palm trees and flowered shrubs in the courtyard. It felt wonderful; all I could hear was a cacophony of birdsong from the many tiny birds in the garden and, in the distance, the occasional wailing sound of people being called to the mosque. If I closed my eyes, I could see Squidge sitting opposite me as he should have been, a big smile on his face. That was one of the things I loved about Squidge. He was always smiling. He was such a happy person. Always enthusiastic and endlessly curious. It was infectious and being with him always made me feel good.
I went back into the room and got the camera to take a few shots of the peaceful breakfast scene in the shade on the balcony and then the quiet of the courtyard and gardens below. Squidge was always telling me that good films were about contrast and that it was important to follow an action scene with a slower one. I’d show him that I had been listening with my photo story. The party was my action scene (I started taking pics again after missing Mum’s reaction and got most of the dinner, party and disco) and now, the morning after was my quiet scene. And then I’d go out and shoot the busy colourful scenes around the main square of Jemaa-el-Fna. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t ask why I had missed the moment we all jumped out to surprise Mum.
My plan to avoid Michael worked perfectly. I watched Mum, Dad and the boys through the open door from behind a pillar in the reception. They got into a couple of taxis and set off for the gardens, and then it was off with the girls to Jemaa-el-Fna. The sun was beating down and the lanes on the way there were a constant bustling stream of pedestrians, mopeds, bicycles, donkeys, mules and carts. Quite a shock after the oasis of the riad and I made sure I got it all on camera for Squidge.
When we reached the square, the next few hours were taken up with exploring the souks and shopping – and what a great experience it was! Star and Rhiannon came with us and together we explored the maze of stalls. Everything was on sale there: spices, gorgeous Ali Baba lamps in every colour and every size, rugs, bedspreads, cushions, clothes, shoes, bags, belts, jewellery, pottery, silver and glass bottles that shone like jewels, scarves, little wooden boxes to keep trinkets in. Stallholders eager to sell their wares called us over at every turn: ‘Fatima, Fatima, over here. Only looking. I give you good price. Genuine Berber. Good quality. Please. Just for looking.’ And it smelled so exotic: a mixture of cedarwood, barbecued meat, fresh bread, honey, mint, heat, spices and donkey poo! I wished I could capture the scent on film as it was part of the experience of being there.
By three o’clock, we were laden down with bags of all sorts of purchases.
‘Don’t forget you’ll have to carry that on the plane,’ said Star as Rhiannon went to purchase an enormous blue- and yellow-coloured bowl. ‘It will break if you put it in your suitcase.’
Rhiannon laughed. ‘Ohmigod, yes. I hadn’t thought of that!’
Cat bought a wallet for her dad, some soft pale blue leather slippers for his girlfriend Jen, wooden snakes that moved like real ones for her brothers Joe and Luke and a lovely turquoise glass perfume bottle for her little sister Emma. Becca bought her mum some silver and coral earrings and her dad a book on Marrakech. I wanted to get something for Squidge. Something that was really Moroccan and that he could treasure.
‘You really like this guy, don’t you?’ asked Rhiannon as we scoured the stalls for the perfect gift.
I nodded. ‘He should be here with us. I keep thinking that it’s my fault that he’s not. He went to fetch something for me and that’s when it happened . . .’
Star put her arm round me. ‘You can’t keep blaming yourself, Lia. Knowing him the little that I do, I don’t think that Squidge would want you to. He’d want you to have the best time you can.’
‘I guess,’ I said. But I couldn’t help feeling guilty knowing that
I was walking around having a great time when he was still cooped up in bed and all because of me. No memento would ever be as good as having the experience of this place.
At that moment, we walked past a stall selling CDs and the stallholder beckoned us in to listen. The Moroccan music that was blasting out from his stall gave me an idea. Squidge had asked me to be his eyes. I would be his other senses too. His ears. His nose. I’d buy him a CD of Moroccan music so that I could take him the sounds of the place. And if I bought spices and collected flowers and fresh mint from the garden then put them in one of the many cedarwood boxes on sale everywhere, then he’d get the smell of the place. I thought he’d like that better than a wallet or T-shirt saying, Morocco.
For the evening, Dad had booked our group to attend a local tourist event called Fantasia and when we got back to the hotel, most of the guests were in their rooms getting ready. It was to be held in a fantasy village outside Marrakech and a coach had been booked to pick everyone up.
As Cat and Becca got ready, I lay on my bed and tried Squidge’s mobile. It was still on voice mail so I presumed that meant that he was still in the hospital. To check, I also dialled his home phone number in the hope of getting an update from his mum and dad but no one picked up. They might be visiting Squidge, I thought as I put my phone away.
As Becca and Cat tried on the outfits they had brought, I reviewed the photos that I had taken on the digital camera in the afternoon. Squidge would be pleased. I’d got a few inside the market and outside the square and I think I’d captured the hustle bustle atmosphere of the stalls taking up every available space. I’d put the camera on its video mode for a short while and kept the sound on so that he could hear the noise of the place and the common cry from just about every stallholder as they beckoned us in to look at their wares: ‘Hey, just a look. It costs nothing to look.’
‘Why aren’t you getting dressed?’ asked Becca as she came out of the shower with her wet hair dripping down her back.
‘Oh. Not going,’ I said.
Cat was sitting at the dressing table drying her hair. She turned off the hairdryer. ‘You’re not coming?’
‘Why not?’ asked Becca.
‘Oh, just fancy an early night and I love being at the hotel . . .’
‘Are you mad?’ asked Becca. ‘I wouldn’t miss one single tiny bit of this trip. It’s all been so brilliant and it keeps getting better.’
She padded back into the shower room and I went back to looking at my photos. Cat came and sat on the end of my bed.
‘OK. So what’s going on?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can’t fool me,’ she said. ‘It’s Michael, isn’t it? You told me that you were worried about him being here. Has something happened?’
‘No. No. Well not exactly. A few vibey things. You know . . .’
Cat nodded. ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘No problem.’
Cat put her hand on my arm. ‘You can trust me, Lia. I won’t blab my mouth off.’
She was looking at me with such genuine concern that I decided to tell her. ‘I swore to Squidge that I’d tell him the truth about everything. Everything that happens on the trip. I want to be able to do that.’
‘And you will,’ said Cat. ‘Listen. What Star said earlier is true. Squidge wouldn’t want you missing out on anything on his account. Really. How would you explain why you missed the Fantasia? Come on, Lia, you have to come.’
‘Michael was coming on pretty strong last night. I don’t want to let Squidge down.’
‘You won’t. Look, Lia. You’re not like Ollie. He’s a player. You’re not. You’re straight. Squidge knows that.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
Cat sighed, then she grinned. ‘You have to come. For one thing, you have to take photos of it all for Squidge. It sounds like it’s going to be such a great night and he’d never forgive you if you missed it. Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. I’ll make sure that you never get left alone with Michael for one thing.’
‘I don’t know . . . I . . .’
Cat was up and at the wardrobe where she pulled out my white jeans and a top. ‘You’re coming. You have to. For Squidge. You promised that you’d be his eyes while you’re here. So come on. I won’t take no for an answer.’
The coach turned off the main road, drove down bumpy country roads then dropped us off in a field where it seemed like half the tourists (if not all) from Marrakech were disembarking. By now, it was dark except for the headlights of taxis and coaches and, up above, the stars in the sky.
‘This might be a really naff touristy-type event,’ I said as we made our way through the fumes from the coaches towards a gate in a high wall. ‘So don’t get your hopes up.’
A crowd of people were jostling their way in and I was beginning to wish that I’d stayed back at the hotel as I get claustrophobic when there are too many people around. I took a few shots and then looked for the girls. Becca, Cat, Rhiannon and Star were with me one moment and then I couldn’t see them amidst all the people pushing to get in. I looked around, in front, behind, but there was no sign of them. I was being moved along by the sheer weight of the crowd and put away the camera in case it got crushed. All of a sudden, Michael was beside me and he took my hand and pulled me forward.
‘Hang on to me,’ he said and pulled me through the door.
It was as if we’d stepped through the looking glass like Alice in the Lewis Carroll books. The crowd dispersed and we were in another world. A magic world of light and perfume and fantasy.
Standing in front of us were two rows of beautiful white horses, on which sat Berber tribesmen with their guns making an arch for the arriving tourists to walk through. At the end of the arch, pretty little Moroccan girls dressed in the traditional costume beckoned us towards them. Hand in hand, Michael and I followed and when we reached the girls, they put their hands into baskets of rose petals and scattered them over us. I felt like we were a bride and groom being showered in confetti.
Our pretty guides led us through an archway into an inner courtyard. They took us past a group of traditional musicians who were playing drums and singing, then through another archway and into a huge open space as big as a football pitch which was surrounded by open tent-type rooms each containing low tables and chairs which were set for dinner. Behind the tents were high walls like those of a castle. Wonderful smells of cooking – onions, spices, garlic and rosemary – wafted through the air. It was like walking into a medieval city. A guide came over to us, took our names then led us to a large tent at the end of the field. Most of our party were already in there, seated on cushions on the floor around five or six tables. As Michael and I were among the last to arrive, we were put on a table together to the right. Luckily Cat, Becca and Jamie were also present. Cat looked at Michael then me and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’ I shrugged my shoulders at her. It was OK. There were so many people around that I doubted that he’d try anything.
The entertainment began almost straight away. Waiters dressed in tribal costume doubled as performers and one after the other they arrived at the flaps of the tent: dancers, snake-charmers, fire-eaters, jugglers, musicians with tambourines, bells, drums and pipes. They would perform, bow and move on to the next tent. Others returned to bring lamb, roasted vegetables, couscous, wine and mint tea.
‘This is a fab night,’ said Cat as she sat back against one of the cushions and grinned widely. I noticed that Jamie took her hand when she said this and she didn’t pull it away. Hmm. Interesting, I thought. Ollie has competition. Good for Cat.
‘Aren’t you glad you came?’ asked Becca.
I nodded. I was. The name ‘Fantasia’ for the evening was perfect as it really did feel like we had been transported into a film set depicting another era. A couple of times Michael passed me something and our hands touched and he seemed to be watching me with the same intensity as he had on the plane. I would glance at him and smile. I hoped he got the message. N
othing was going to happen.
After supper, we were all invited to go and sit on the raised concrete benches around the edges of the field in the middle of the arena. When everyone was seated, lights were turned off in the area and flares at the back of the field blazed brightly, lighting up the sky. Music blasted out of speakers at each end, filling the night with the most glorious sounds.
‘It’s Carmina Burana,’ said Dad, coming up behind me. ‘One of my favourite pieces of music.’
As the music burst forth, so did the sound of horses’ hooves, and suddenly spotlights flooded the field, lighting up the most amazing spectacle. Horses and their riders in full tribal costume were charging down the field at full pelt. As they rode, they went into a show of acrobatics, swinging over and up on the horse’s back, all the time riding so fast it took your breath away to watch them. And then they rode four, five, six to a horse. After the acrobatics, another group of horsemen charged forward, hollering and shaking guns. As they reached the end of the field, they all fired their rifles into the sky, causing Becca to almost jump out of her skin. I tried to get it on camera but the experience was so amazing that after a while I put it down to watch.
After the horse show, the lights dimmed and a softer light came on along with a troupe of belly dancers shimmering their way across the field. Up in the sky, a magic carpet appeared to fly across the field carrying a prince and his princess.
And then suddenly it was over. The lights went off and we were left standing, looking at the full moon and stars.
At least I thought it was over. With an almighty roar, the sky exploded with the blaze of hundreds of fireworks. All faces turned to the sky and, as I turned mine, I felt hands slip around my waist from behind me.
It was Michael.
As the sky blazed bright and music blasted out of speakers, Michael turned me round to face him, cupped my chin in one of his hands, slipped his hand round the back of my head and pulled me to him.
Midsummer Meltdown Page 7