I stroll into the living room, where Mark in tapping away on the computer. I peer over his shoulder to see what he’s looking at. I hate doing this. Standing up while bending over almost double to look at a screen which is positioned for a person sitting down in front of it. Personally, I think that the person showing you something wonderful should stand up and let you sit down. Maybe I should write a book on PC etiquette.
‘This is the hotel I’ll be staying at. Fab, yeah?’
I lean forward and take a look. It looks like lots of other place you see in all the world’s various holiday resorts. There’s a picture of an enormous blue swimming pool, but it’s also got those scary-looking flumes that kids like to slide down. Big, long, winding ones. The whole thing looks like it was built about two weeks ago, though I’m sure it can’t be that recent.
There are photographs of spotless rooms with twin beds and bland prints, beautiful, white-sanded beaches, perfect couples sharing a glass of Champagne at some restaurant or other and people strolling down secluded coves. As you’re reading, a slide show of various tourist attractions drifts past. I feel rather light-headed looking at it all.
‘The girls will be in one twin room and me and Danny will be in another. I can’t imagine what it’ll be like sharing a room with Danny. He was quite a big drinker, so hopefully he won’t be up all night talking or anything. I guess we’ll go and check out all the bars and then come back to the room and pass out!’
‘What’ll you be doing in the day, d’you think?’ I’m asking this question, but I’m not sure I care about the answer.
‘Well, it says here that they can organise water skiing, scuba diving and stuff like that, so I might give some of those a go. I tried water skiing years ago, but I’ve never tried scuba. Apparently it’s really good for scuba. Well, you can see for yourself – lovely, clear water. Look – you can see right down to the bottom. I wonder if they’ve got a glass-bottomed boat for hire? Hey, and fishing! Just look at these restaurants!’
When Mark has finished drooling over the hotel website, he starts packing a suitcase. He spends the next half hour asking me where various items of clothing are. I get so involved in helping him find things it’s almost as if I’m going with him. On a couple of occasions, lasting only a fragment of a second, I actually think I am.
He holds various items of holiday clothing up and asks my opinion about the. Is this one too old? Will this be too hot? Is this one too out of date? I get a sheet of paper and we make a list of things that he’s going to have to buy or replace. He finds a pair of Reef flip flops, which look OK until you pick them up and notice one of the straps has broken away from the rubber. He digs out his spare contact lens stuff and realises he hasn’t got any spare lens fluid. There is no suntan lotion in the flat at all. His smart pair of sunglasses are broken.
By the time we’ve finished, the list stretches almost to the bottom of a sheet of A4 paper.
An hour later we’re in Oxford Street, unpleasantly busy as usual, zigzagging from shop to shop trying to find all the stuff he needs. I almost get run over by a bus. The thing that takes the longest for him to choose isn’t clothing, as you might expect, but a carry-on shoulder bag. The one we found in the flat had mould over it, was a bit shabby and he decided it was too short notice to give it a good scrub and dry it out in time, so he’s looking for a new one which is the right height, looks cool and fashionable and doesn’t cost a fortune.
I stand and watch in amazement as he selects various bags, slings them over his shoulder and walks up and down in a cool, fashionable manner, tossing his hair back like a z-grade male model. He says that it’s important how they feel against you when you’re walking. You don’t want to get one that scrapes against your hip or has got too much of a swing. You don’t want to look stupid while you’re wearing it.
You could, of course, not use the shoulder strap and just use the carry handle, but that doesn’t seem to occur to him. Must be a man thing. By the time he’s primping around with Bag 6, I exchange a weary glance with the girl who has the unenviable job of helping us.
The one he buys is the first one he looked at. Or modelled, depending upon your point of view.
After an hour of brain-numbing browsing, we’re only half way down the list. The next stop will be a large chemist where I’m sure he’ll be spending an inordinate amount of time choosing the perfect sun tan lotion/oil/whatever. I’m starting to feel exhausted and depressed and I haven’t even done any shopping. I decide to give myself a break. I tell him I’m going to pop into the café of a nearby department store and have a coffee and a blueberry muffin or something similarly life-threatening. We arrange to meet in the sunglasses department of said store in half an hour.
After he’s chosen some sunglasses (One hour? Two hours?) it’s on to Waterstones to select his holiday reading, probably an armful of Andy McNab novels and some tedious comedy star autobiographies.
I sit down with my coffee and toffee muffin (tastes like…fill in the worst thing you can think of) and take a deep breath. Since this morning, I’ve got so swept up in all of Mark’s holiday arrangements that I have to keep continually reminding myself that I AM NOT GOING WITH HIM.
It’s really difficult to psych yourself into that state of mind. Your brain must assume that as you’re walking around shops looking at suntan oil and sunglasses, you’re about to hop on the next plane to Tenerife or somewhere. Not sure where Tenerife is. Must remember to remind Mark to sync his iPod when we get back. Make sure he packs the charger. And his mobile. And the mobile charger. Find out where Tenerife is on Wikipedia.
A couple in their twenties sit at the table next to mine. They’ve got a whole bunch of shopping, but it’s nice things, not holiday things or domestic essentials. They seem bubbly and enthusiastic and keep looking at each other and discreetly touching. How long can they have been going out? Six months at the longest, I would say. The man fishes a book out of a carrier bag and rests it on his knee. He’s wearing a watch with a black face and black hands. I try to see what the book is without making it seem like I’m a disturbed lone woman trying to intrude on someone else’s life.
It’s a book about Alphonse Mucha. I love art books (even though I can rarely afford them), and this one looks like it’s really well done. Expensive, too, I would imagine. I remember doing some stuff about Mucha in university. Art Nouveau. A Czech. Lived in Paris. Did posters and jewellery. Sexy girls in flowing robes. Those were the days.
The woman smells strongly of a perfume that I can’t identify. She looks Asian and is extremely beautiful. Very tight jeans. She pulls a dark green velvet scarf out of a bag and strokes it with her hand. She wears lots of rings. In one of her other bags, which is on a spare chair, there’s a very attractive spray of dried flowers. I wonder where he got the book? I wonder where she got the scarf? Will they have sex this afternoon? She looks up, catches my eye and licks her lips. Ooh!
I finish my coffee and automatically look on the floor to make sure I’ve got all my shopping, then remember that I haven’t got any shopping. I leave the toffee muffin. It lies on the plate looking sad, with a solitary bite taken out of its side.
When I get to the sunglasses department, Mark is trying on what is probably his thirtieth pair. These are a pair of grey Oakley Monster Dogs with grey plutonium lenses, which would look cool on a slim, well-toned, nineteen year old extreme sports dude, but look faintly ridiculous on Mark. I hope for his sake that he doesn’t choose them.
‘These are the ones! These are my man!’
Oh well. They cost just over a hundred pounds.
I float into Waterstone’s, barely taking in any of the things on the shelves (books, I believe they’re called). Mark heads straight for the celebrity biographies and is flicking through a Justin Lee Collins book with one hand while holding a Jimmy Carr one under his arm for later perusal. Normally, he’d make a mental note of which books he liked and then go home and buy them for half the price or less on Amazon, but it’s too late f
or that so he’ll have to buy them at bookshop prices which will really, really hurt.
While he’s doing that, I saunter down to the art book section and automatically look for the Mucha book I saw that guy with in the coffee shop. It’s there, so I pick it up. It’s really heavy, which is always a good sign with these sorts of things and the paper is good quality, too.
I look at the price, but it’s much too much, so I just flick through it. He did the lot, old Mucha. Panels, posters, pastels – and I can’t sell a bloody thing. I’m so lost in it that I don’t notice Mark behind me until he taps me on the shoulder. I hate being tapped on the shoulder. He’s holding five paperbacks and indicates that we should go to the checkout. I put the Mucha book back on the shelf, stroking its spine like we’re an item.
‘What’s that you were looking at?’
‘Alphonse Mucha.’
‘Never heard of him. Come on.’
We head back to the tube station, both of us carrying about five shopping bags in each hand. Even though Mark’s holiday cost was ‘only’ a little over three hundred pounds (apart from the flight, it now turns out, which is £207 RT), I reckon he’s just spent double that in the last hour and a half.
I mustn’t criticise. This is Mark’s holiday and it’s Mark’s money. He can spend it on what he likes. If I’d had to go on a holiday like this at short notice, I’d probably have spent something like the same amount. In fact, I’d probably have spent more on clothes and beachwear than he has, and I’d have bought a couple of micro bikinis, items which I know he would never have bought. I’ve never had a micro bikini. I wonder if I’d have to get a Brazilian? I think I would.
I’m sweaty. When we get back I’m going straight in the shower. I’ve still got the taste of that horrible toffee muffin in my mouth. I’ve got a splitting headache. Mark is humming happily to himself.
Sunday 15th
Well, today’s the day. I sit down, staring out of the window, sipping a coffee, but really I’m watching Mark out of the corner of my eye. He got all his stuff together last night but is leaving it until today to actually pack his suitcase. Predictably, he’s having trouble closing it. He’s also faffing about with what to with the stuff in his new carry-on bag. He wants to put all the books he bought in it, because he still can’t make his mind up which one of them he wants to read on the flight over.
I tell him to pick the two most likely and to put the other four in his suitcase. He has two jumpers in his suitcase and a sweatshirt. I tell him if he took those out and put the books in, he’d be able to close the suitcase. The likelihood of him needing a jumper in Greece at this time of year is remote; the average temperature is about 28 degrees. If he gets there and he’s in the middle of a blizzard, then he can go and buy a woolly coat in a shop or something. To be honest, I’m a little sick of giving him advice now. He’s lucky that Danny is dealing with all the money, as he’d never had had time yesterday to sort out traveller’s cheques and local currency.
Callum, before his tragic drunken idiot bike accident, had paid Danny to get him all the tedious money stuff (sensible boy!), so all Mark has to do is to give a cheque to Danny, which he will then give to Callum. The cheque, it goes without saying, would be written out to Callum. Does that sound too complicated for a banking lecturer? Well it was.
Mark was fretting about Danny and/or Callum ripping him off with the exchange rates and bank charges for using cheques or something like that. It’s as if even thinking about money makes Mark go all edgy and weird, although he seemed to be OK yesterday when he was treating himself to about seven hundred pounds worth of holiday goodies. What is it about guys and money? Why is it so important? Is it fear of uncertainty in a baffling, confusing world or something? Crippling insecurity combined with the conviction that everyone is trying to work you over? Did he get it from his parents? Who knows.
‘I’m not sure about these flip flops now.’
‘Well, it’s too late. You’ve bought them now. You’ll probably hardly wear them anyway.’
‘Maybe I can pick up another pair at the airport. It’s just that these ones feel scratchy when you put them on.’
‘Did you try them on your bare feet in the shop?’
‘No.’
‘Then, sweetie, you only have yourself to blame!’
His voice changes. It’s suddenly petulant and mean.
‘You’re really uptight about me going on this holiday, aren’t you.’
‘What brought that on?’
‘Just then. Having a go at me about the flip flops.’
‘How was I having a go at you?’
‘You were blaming me for buying a pair I hadn’t tried on, but everyone knows that nobody tries on flip flops in the shop.’
‘I do.’
‘Well of course you do. Little Miss Perfect.’
‘Oh, fuck off Mark.’
As you can imagine, the atmosphere in the car on the way to the airport was not filled with deliciously sparkling wit and light-hearted repartee. I’m holding the steering wheel so tightly that I’m worried it might come off in my hands.
I thought I’d be a little nervous or angry or intimidated when I finally met Mark’s holiday chums, but by the time we got to Heathrow I was in a far more balanced state of mind. Mark and I are both adults. Someone asked him to help them out by taking the place of a friend who, though no fault of his own, was no longer able to join them on a quick jaunt to Greece. A quick sun-drenched, fun-packed jaunt to Greece.
Mark and I had plans for this coming week, but nothing that couldn’t be done another time. Mark has been working hard and he’ll have fun. He deserves the break. If I could have afforded it, I might even have joined them. Also, I’ll have close on a week to see if I can get some work done on my canvases. I can be focussed and not have to worry about Mark being around and having to tidy up every day at five-o-clock. It’ll be good.
God – I almost convinced myself for a moment.
Danny grins and shakes my hand. He addresses Mark like I’m not there.
‘So this is the little lady, then! You didn’t tell me you were shacked up with a top model, Mark!’
Oh. My. God.
Danny is – and there’s no kind way to say this – a prick.
He’s short, sweaty and overweight, and as he talks to Mark, he looks me up and down in a way that makes my skin crawl. He continues to speak directly to Mark about me, his piggy little eyes darting over my boobs every couple of seconds.
‘Shame she can’t come! I’ll bet she scrubs up lovely in a bikini, eh?’
Pervert.
Mark laughs at Danny’s hilarious banter. It occurs to me that this, this person couldn’t be called anything else but Danny Crump. I almost feel sorry for Mark, having to spend five minutes in this man’s company, let alone five days. It’s hard to believe that they’re about the same age. Danny looks about fifteen years older and considerably more shagged out, though not in a good way. I almost feel sorry for him, too, but not that much.
‘Yeah. Yeah she does. This is Chloe Dixon. Chloe, this is Danny Crump.’
Danny shakes my hand again. Either he likes the physical contact or he’s so stupid he’s forgotten that out hands have already shaken thirty seconds ago. I think it’s the former. He continues to clasp my hand after the shaking has stopped.
‘Chloe, eh?’ says Danny.
The two girls, who have been silent and staring, look from Danny to Mark and from Mark to Danny. I keep forgetting that they’ve never met Mark before. Or me, for that matter. I’m wondering if this has occurred to Danny. I extract my hand from Danny’s.
One of the girls is tall, pale and fairly pretty (is that bitchy enough for you?). She has one of those complexions where you just know she’s going to be the same colour when she comes back from five days of intense Mediterranean sunbathing. She’s quite busty and I can see her nipples through the top she’s wearing. I imagine she’d get a lot of attention on the beach. She’s grinning at me. I don’t kno
w why.
The other girl has a permanent smile on her face and cute dimples in her cheeks. She’s got blonde hair which has been cut short. Ear piercing on the right ear. Good cheekbones. She’s shorter than the other one. Wide hips, small breasts. She keeps fiddling with her hair and nervously tapping her foot against her suitcase, as if checking it’s still there without having to look down. She’s a little overweight. She could be Danny’s younger sister, if he has one.
Danny nudges the tall one and points to me. ‘This is Chloe, Mark’s main squeeze. Chloe, this is Margot.’
I shake hands with Margot. We smile at each other. Did Danny just say ‘main squeeze’?
‘It’s such a shame you can’t come, Chloe.’ says Margot, looking at the floor.
I don’t know how to respond to this.
‘Well, I’m very busy with work. You know how it is.’
Margot looks up and smiles vacantly. She doesn’t know how it is.
‘And this beauty,’ says Danny, indicating the shorter one, ‘is Ruth.’
Ruth and I shake hands. Danny doesn’t take his eyes off Ruth. Either they’re already bonking or it’s something Danny has in mind for the future. Does that mean that Mark gets to have busty Margot? I must kill these thoughts before they start roosting in my brain.
There’s an awkward silence. I decide to break it. I look from Margot to Ruth, grinning like an idiot. ‘Do you both work with Danny?’
‘I work with Danny.’ Replies Ruth. ‘Margot is a friend of mine.’
That’s that out of the way, then.
‘I don’t work with Danny.’ adds Margot, helpfully.
I watch as the four of them exchange brief holiday chat and fiddle with their bags. Mark shows Danny a couple of the books he’s bought. Ruth asks Margot if she’s got any moisturiser. It’s as if I’m invisible. I feel like a mega-gooseberry and want to get away as fast as possible.
‘OK. Good. Well I must dash. Don’t want to pay a fortune to the car park people here!’
Mark smiles at me and takes my arm, moving me a few feet from the others. ‘Thanks for letting me do this, baby. We’ll have a ball when I come back, I promise. You are a star.’
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