The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  As I cross the lobby towards the door that leads to the beach, a woman in front of me is heading in the same direction. She is wearing a see-through sarong, a microscopic cropped top and bikini bottoms that are more bottom than bikini.

  The contrast with own approach to beachwear today couldn’t be more acute: there’s my massive glasses, my massive hat and a kaftan thingy my mum bought me six years ago that is only slightly more revealing than a burkha. I look horrendous, but this combo has at least one benefit: I am in disguise. As a tent.

  I step out of the double doors edgily and scan the beach.

  It’s quieter than the sun deck, with only one or two couples lying out under huge, white beach umbrellas. I am greeted by a beach butler, who escorts me to a secluded spot beneath a gently swaying palm. He produces a towel as thick as a 15-tog quilt and flips it onto a lounger like a matador’s cape. He offers me a drink, then something to eat, then enquires if he can adjust my umbrella, followed by a plethora of other suggestions that eventually forces me to thrust a tip into his hand just to get shot of him.

  I settle on my front anxiously, pull out my book and tell myself to relax. I have to relax. Relaxing is now an absolute MUST-DO.

  ‘Here is a small fact . . .’

  ‘Helloo!’

  I place my hand above my eyes and squint up into the silhouette of a man. ‘Um, hi,’ I reply, adjusting my position to avoid the blinding sunshine.

  He appears to be in his early twenties and slim, bronzed to the colour of turkey gravy and with teeth so bright they must be visible from space.

  ‘I think . . . zis . . . I think you drop.’ He holds out the shower cap, the one from the room.

  ‘Oh . . . thank you,’ I say, hastily shoving it in my bag and making a mental note to stop collecting hotel toiletries, particularly since I’ve never used a shower cap in my life.

  I smile and settle down again.

  ‘Here is a small fact . . .’

  ‘Do you mind eef . . .’ I look up and he’s gesturing shyly to the sun bed next to mine. My heart sinks, followed by a rapid feeling of guilt at being so antisocial, even if it is difficult to be gregarious when you’re near psychotic with anxiety.

  But am I going to tell him I’d prefer to be alone, even if that’s true? Of course not. I’m British.

  ‘Not at all.’ I smile enthusiastically as he gestures to a beach butler, who appears with a towel.

  He makes himself comfortable and stretches out, which makes him appear even more toned, in a reedy kind of way. Not that I’m looking. He’s far too young for me, even if there weren’t a million other issues at play.

  ‘Here is a small fact . . .’

  ‘Are you Eeenglish?’

  ‘Yes. Where are you from?’ I desperately want to go back to my book but have always suffered from this reverse type of Tourette’s, where I have no control over the polite words spilling out of my mouth.

  ‘Italy,’ he replies. ‘Firenze.’

  Florence. He’s from Florence. He’s just become 1,000 per cent more interesting.

  ‘I know Florence well.’

  ‘Really?’ he says softly.

  I prop myself up on my elbows and study him, only then realising that he reminds me of Roberto in more than just the obvious ways. He’s got that good-looking-but-unassuming vibe going on. Despite that, he looks almost intimidated by me, despite ploughing on with the conversation. I decide to show more enthusiasm.

  ‘That’s where my boyfriend was born,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh,’ he replies, looking disappointed. ‘Are you ’ere with your boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not . . . we’re not . . . sorry – I’m single these days.’

  He perks up. ‘I ’ave never been to Barcelona before, ’ave you?’

  ‘It’s my first time. I haven’t seen much of it yet, though. Your English is very good,’ I add politely.

  He looks ecstatic. ‘Reeally? You theenk? That means so much to me. It make me feel so horny to know that.’

  I do a double take. ‘You mean . . . happy?’

  ‘Happy, happy – yes! I so happy.’

  I smile. Then I return to my book.

  ‘Here is a small fact . . .’

  ‘’Ave you been on the entire of the beach?’

  I look up. ‘You mean have I walked along the whole boardwalk? Not yet, but I might try it at some point.’

  He smiles. He has a sweet smile, wide and amiable. ‘I would like to. It is my first day only here. But I love wanking. Wanking is my passion.’

  ‘Walking,’ I correct him.

  ‘Yes, wanking,’ he agrees. ‘My father always say, wanking is the best possible exercise. Wank everywhere if you can . . . in the summer, in the winter, in the sunshine, in the night.’

  ‘WALKING is very good exercise,’ I reply, stressing the pronunciation.

  ‘You like wanking, too?’

  I suppress a smile. ‘Oh, at least once or twice a week.’ When he grins, I realise how much his dark eyes look like Roberto’s. It makes my stomach flip.

  ‘You look sad,’ he says. ‘You not have a nice time on holiday?’

  ‘I’m having a lovely time,’ I reply, slightly defensively.

  ‘Good. Is very good.’

  I smile and am about to try reading again, when my phone rings. I sit up in a cold sweat when I hear Charles’s voice.

  ‘Imogen, there’s been a change of plan. You’re on in fifteen minutes.’

  After a brief conversation with my PR guru, it turns out a producer from the Afternoon programme, News Morning’s sister show, is phoning me in ten minutes and counting. With News Morning threatening to scoop the Daily Sun, Afternoon somehow picked up the story too, and its reporters are determined to get in first. Which means they want me live on the show. Not tomorrow morning. Not at some unspecified point in the future. But in ten minutes.

  Charles fills me in on a few questions they might throw at me. I write his suggested answers on the back page of The Book Thief, barely taking in anything beyond, ‘I’m here to be as open and honest as possible,’ a line he suggests I fall back on if I feel flustered at any point. He thinks I’m joking when I tell him that might be the only thing I say.

  With my heart thumping like the bass on a Motörhead album, I rip the page from the book, leap up, throw on my kaftan and grab my belongings.

  ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to run,’ I announce to my neighbour. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiles, sitting up to shake my hand. ‘I am erotic to meet you, too.’

  Chapter 29

  I am racing to the lifts in the lobby, attempting to prevent beach paraphernalia tumbling from my arms, when I spot Harry again. WHY can’t I get rid of this man? He’s by the lift, blocking the fastest route back to my room, which I have precisely nine minutes to reach.

  I’ve homed in on the door to the stairs – my next best option – when he starts to turn around. At which point I plunge into the Ladies’ as they are the nearest available room in which to take momentary refuge.

  At least, I’d thought they were the Ladies’. But, as I glance around, the presence of five gleaming urinals would indicate otherwise.

  ‘Shit!’ I mutter, prising open the door a crack to see if Harry’s in the lift yet.

  To my alarm he is walking in this direction. Even the man’s bladder is conspiring against me.

  I stumble back and head for the nearest cubicle. I’m almost inside when my sunglasses clatter to the floor, but there’s no time to collect them. Instead, I stumble inside, lock the door and, conscious that if my toes are visible underneath the door I’m busted, leap onto the rim of the toilet in an ungainly squat, while attempting to keep the hem of my kaftan out of the bowl.

  I hold my breath as he enters the room, walks directly to my cubicle and attempts to push open the door. It rattles threateningly . . . but stays shut. I cover my mouth with my hand and try to silence my breathing.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mutters, and tr
ies the adjacent cubicle.

  I squirm with discomfort, and not just because my calf muscles are physically shaking in this position. This was the man who, whether I liked it or not, set my pulse racing. Am I really going to have to listen to him on the toilet?

  On the plus side, if he’s locked in for a prolonged period, I can at least make my getaway. Unable to sustain the squat any longer, I shift my position a little on the loo, believing I’ve been successful until I watch the last page of The Book Thief floating down into the toilet pan, complete with the sum total of my media briefing from Charles.

  Harry blows his nose briefly, and I realise he’d obviously just popped in for some loo roll. Then the main door squeaks open and I breathe out silently, relieved that he’s about to leave. But he is halted in his tracks by a ringing phone.

  ‘Harry Pfeiffer here. Hello, Ken, how are you?’ There’s a pause, then Harry continues. ‘I managed to get her by herself last night and think we’re nearly there. If I can just pin her down on the details about the flight, I should have everything over to you earlier than deadline. Yeah, really.’ He laughs. ‘Of course I’m confident! It’s fair to say this is one of the less demanding jobs I’ve been sent on.’

  Less demanding? Well, we’ll see about that!

  I’ve just put my feet on the floor as he’s ending the call, when something horrendous happens: something far worse than losing my media briefing on the last page of The Book Thief down the loo; something that makes that look like no big deal at all.

  I drop my phone in the toilet.

  It lands with an uncompromising plop, then sinks, bubbling to the bottom, the final ingredient in my cauldron of misery.

  ‘Arrrrgghhh!’ I don’t care if Harry hears me; the priority now is resuscitating it. And I know there’s only one way, if his advice after I dropped it in the fruit salad was correct.

  I hold my breath and shove in my hand, a process indescribable in its repugnance. I successfully fish out the phone and frantically begin dismantling it, removing the battery, then the sim card, then shaking every bit of water out.

  ‘Oh . . . please!’ I say to no one in particular as I wipe it on my kaftan.

  ‘Everything all right in there?’ Harry knocks on the door.

  I take a deep breath and, shoving my spare belongings into my bag, I unlock the door.

  ‘Yes!’ I hiss, pushing past him, not caring now if he’s a member of the press, the paparazzi or the bloody Mob.

  ‘What happened to your phone?’

  ‘I had such fun dropping it into the fruit salad yesterday, I thought I’d try it in here this time.’

  He frowns. ‘Can I help? Maybe if you put it under the hand dryer . . .? What are you doing in here, anyway?’

  I sniff. ‘I took a wrong turn. I was looking for the . . . oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Hey, while I’ve got you . . . are you around tonight?’ He smiles at me easily. ‘It’d be good to have a drink together if you are. It’d be nice to have more of a chat. I find your job really interesting.’

  That’s it. Fury bubbles upside in me. ‘Interesting? Tell me . . . why would a journalist find my boring old job interesting?’

  He looks taken aback. Clearly, the last thing he’s expecting was for me to catch him in the act – actually talking about the Peebles story with his news desk.

  ‘I just . . . well, we don’t have to talk about—’

  ‘Let me stop you there.’ I interrupt with a surge of inner strength. ‘I am on holiday. If you people want to interview me, or find out anything you like about David Hartnett and his . . . misdemeanour, then please do as everyone else has done and phone my PR company.’

  ‘I didn’t want to interview you,’ he replies.

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ I snap. ‘You wanted to get a scoop – you wanted an “off the record” chat. Well, fine, here’s something very much ON the record – keep away from me.’

  He is momentarily silenced. ‘Fine. If that’s the way you’d like it,’ he says eventually.

  ‘I would.’ Then I gasp. ‘Shit! What time is it?’

  ‘Twenty past one—’ But he hasn’t even finished his sentence before I hurtle through the door to meet my fate. My first-ever radio broadcast, going out live across the UK.

  No pressure then.

  Chapter 30

  I arrive at the hotel room as the landline is ringing and am inches from the handset when it stops.

  ‘SORREEY!’

  I turn and glare at the toilet door. It’s one of those trendy frosted ones – beautiful to look at but, given that with the door closed you can still see the outline of the user, only truly appropriate for use when you’re bunking in with very close family members or the visually impaired.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask Meredith, averting my eyes.

  ‘Dodgy stomach,’ she shouts through the door. ‘We came back early. Didn’t you see Nic? She went looking for you – we assumed you’d be on the sun deck.’

  ‘I was on the beach. Look, are you going to be long? I’m expecting an important phone call . . . or maybe not, actually,’ I add, gazing at the phone hopefully. ‘Maybe they’ve given up on me.’

  It rings.

  ‘What did you say?’ Meredith shouts through.

  ‘I said this is an important . . . Look, it doesn’t matter – can you just be as quiet as possible?’

  ‘I didn’t catch that,’ Meredith replies, as I pick up the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Imogen Copeland?’

  ‘Yes,’ I squeak.

  ‘Donna Sollenberger from the Afternoon programme. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

  ‘Sorry – I was held up.’

  ‘Well, it’s okay, we’ve got you now. But we’re on air in about thirty seconds, so Jim Bryson will be with you then, okay?’

  ‘I . . . suppose so.’ Jim Bryson is the programme’s lead presenter and is known for being the journalistic equivalent of a Rottweiler. I take several deep breaths and tell myself I can do this; I can muster up a masterful performance, no doubt about it.

  ‘Good luck,’ she says nonchalantly, and flicks a switch so I can hear the programme being broadcast.

  ‘We move on to the remarkable story that Afternoon brought to you FIRST in the one o’clock headlines – that of a senior executive from one of the UK’s most prominent companies, who was arrested after allegedly engaging in sexual intercourse on a first-class flight from Stuttgart.’

  I gasp. It wasn’t full sex! But before I can gather my thoughts, there’s a knock on the door. I consider leaving it, but it becomes more insistent as I catch snippets of the programme in the background.

  ‘Peebles, the confectionary and cereals giants, are holding an internal inquiry about the incident, which allegedly took place on a flight between Heathrow and Stuttgart last month.’

  I open the door tentatively, the phone glued to my ear. ‘Servicio de habitaciones . . . room service,’ declares a waiter. Before I can protest, he pushes through a hostess trolley, complete with silver-service tray. What the hell has Meredith been ordering?

  ‘Joining me now is Imogen Copeland, spokeswoman from Peebles.’

  My stomach goes into freefall as I realise I’m now on air. I need to get rid of this waiter. Only, he won’t move. He just stands there, waiting for his tip. I frantically survey the room for spare change, flinging items around the room until, in desperation, I locate a 10 cents coin and thrust it in his palm.

  ‘Ms Copeland . . . what has the chap in question had to say for himself?’

  My mouth goes dry and my lip starts to wobble. The waiter is immobile, glaring at the tip like I’ve just put a snotty tissue in his hand. But all I can concentrate on is that that was not one of Charles’s predicted questions. Even with my media briefing now floating around a Catalan sewerage system, I know that much.

  I usher the waiter out of the room, almost engaging a size-six espadrille against his arse as he refuses to move with any speed,
then I start talking. I barely process what I’m saying, but I am at least talking.

  ‘Um . . . well, like you said, the internal inquiry will happen shortly so we will have to discuss this matter with . . . with the . . . individual in question then. I wouldn’t like to pre-empt that.’

  ‘I see. And—’

  ‘Can I clarify something, though,’ I add, knowing that if I don’t correct this now, I may never get the chance. ‘They didn’t have . . . sexual intercourse.’ The thermostat on my cheeks is turned up several degrees as I say the words. ‘Not . . . you know, completely.’

  ‘Not completely?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So there was no sex? The police got this wrong?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying that . . . there was some, you know . . .’

  My mind is suddenly blank. There is a deafening silence on the line as he waits for me to continue. I open my mouth but nothing comes out of it.

  ‘IMOGEN!’ Meredith suddenly hollers, shattering the quiet. Oh God, I need to keep talking!

  ‘There was some, um . . . funny business,’ I begin, as if my broadcast training was delivered by Benny Hill.

  ‘Funny. Business?’ Bryson says the two words as if he’s got something stuck in his teeth.

  For some reason, dabbing sweat from my forehead, I feel as if my only option is to expand on the description. ‘He got to . . . well, he got to third base.’ I wince.

  ‘IMOGEN, CAN YOU PASS ME SOME LOO ROLL?’

  I sprint to the bathroom cupboard, rifling around in it until I locate the toilet paper.

  ‘I . . . see,’ says Bryson uncertainly. ‘For those of us unfamiliar with American baseball terms, perhaps you could expand?’

  I bite my fist. ‘What . . . really?’

  ‘Well, what else have you come on here for?’ he asks snarkily.

  ‘IMOGEN . . . ARE YOU THERE? IMOGEN? I’M STUCK ON THE BOG HERE – DO ME A FAVOUR, WON’T YOU?’