Honeymoon For One

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Pool?’ I say as he opens the door that leads to the swimming pool, just a small patio’s distance away.

  ‘Yes, pool,’ he replies. ‘Only your pool.’

  Having my own private pool is like a dream come true. Well, think about it. You can do whatever you want, swim laps, drift around on a lilo – it doesn’t matter, because you’re not getting in anyone’s way and no one is getting in yours. And then there’s the added bonus that it doesn’t matter what you look like. You don’t need to suck your tummy in as you walk to the pool or frantically try to make sure your bikini top stays in place as you climb out, because no one is watching. It’s just you, your infinity pool and the horizon.

  I fantasise about being in the pool, watching the sunset over the ocean. I’d daydreamed about doing this with Daniel when I probably should have been writing my book. I hope it isn’t ruined for me now.

  Before Savino leaves, he realises he is still clutching my suitcase, so he places it down in the lounge area. I plonk myself on the sofa next to it.

  It’s quiet in here. Really quiet. Maybe too quiet, for my particular set of circumstances. I desperately wanted to escape from my life earlier, but now that I’m here, with it being so late and the villa being a little out of the way… I feel so alone. Not just here, but when I eventually go back to my real life too.

  As I unzip my suitcase, something immediately catches my eye. My mind darts back to the airport, when a lady who worked there asked me if I packed my bag myself. I said yes because I did. I feel so, so fortunate that no one looked inside, because it would seem my dear friend Ali snuck a honeymoon present in there for me – I imagine when she stopped by to put the banner up. I’m starting to regret leaving her that key to water my plants – oh, wait, she won’t be using it now.

  I remove the massive purple dildo from my suitcase and stand it on the table. It’s made of soft plastic and yet it’s so hard and heavy. It stands erect on the table, at maybe eight or nine inches. I know Ali well enough to know that this was probably her idea of a joke. I don’t think she looked at me, and then at Daniel, and thought, Yep, they’d appreciate an emasculating big, purple plastic dick on their honeymoon.

  Here alone, it just makes me feel sad – which sounds weird, but I can imagine what was going through Ali’s head when she planted it in there, and then I imagine what Daniel would have said when we found it. There’s no way he would’ve found it funny, which would’ve made me find it even funnier. Mostly it just makes me miss my friend.

  I snap a photo of my new purple friend sitting pretty on the coffee table, and text it to Ali with the caption:

  Got here safe, it’s a gorgeous place. Thanks for the present – what the hell am I supposed to do with that? haha x

  I only have a chance to remove a beach towel from my case before a reply comes through.

  Do you need me to send you a diagram? Haha! Glad you got there safe. Stop moping and have some fun! x

  Moping is exactly what I’m doing right now; she really does know me so well.

  I quickly toss my phone to one side, not wanting to see another word, well-meaning message or photo from the wedding.

  I pick up the resort guide from the table and have a flick through. It’s only the same information I’ve looked at on the website a million times, with a handy little map for finding your way around, but reading about the twenty-four-hour bar is something I didn’t already know.

  It is late… after 10 p.m. now… I could go to the bar? Not because I desperately need a drink – I think I’ve had enough for one day – but because it’s something to do. Something other than crying myself to sleep upstairs.

  I look down at my tracksuit and wonder whether I can go to the bar like this. It’s not exactly a scruffy hoodie and baggy bottoms, it’s a bizarrely sexy Victoria’s Secret tracksuit, made from impossibly soft black material. And I’ve still got my wedding hair in, which will go a long way to making me look presentable. As for my face, well, it’s probably best I don’t look at it. I haven’t cried in a while, so my eyes probably look fine, and my foundation will still be perfect, because it changed my life when I started spending good (read: too much) money on make-up. I’ll just be rocking a sort of… unnatural natural look, that’s all.

  Or I could go to bed. I probably should…

  Actually, no, sod it, I’m going to check out the twenty-four-hour bar. I’m not going to waste another second crying over Daniel bloody Tyler.

  Not tonight, anyway.

  7

  If I had to walk the streets of London at this time of night, I’d be terrified. I’d have my phone clutched tightly in one hand and my rape alarm in the other, ready to make some noise and call for help at the first sniff of danger. Here, though… I have never felt so safe walking around on my own.

  I suppose it’s the fact that it is a private island. The only people on the island are supposed to be here. Staff are paid to work here, and anyone staying at this place isn’t going to need to mug me for the few Euros I have in my handbag, because if they can afford to stay here, they’re not going to be resorting to petty crime any time soon. Unless they’re like me, with an expensive wedding that is still largely to pay for.

  The easy-to-follow map has led me straight to the twenty-four-hour bar, which is inside the main hotel building. Sadly, it is completely empty.

  I’m just about to leave and kick myself for trailing down here when a man in a white shirt emerges from the toilets.

  ‘Oh, is the bar open?’ I say.

  ‘It sure is,’ he replies. ‘It’s always open.’

  The barman has a strong, west-coast American accent. I love how diverse the staff are here; they seem to have acquired people from all over the globe.

  ‘Great,’ I reply, taking a seat on a bar stool. ‘Can you make me a porn star martini, please?’

  ‘I can,’ he replies with a laugh.

  I didn’t mean to imply he couldn’t.

  ‘Sorry, of course you can. Thank you.’

  The man seems puzzled by my awkwardness.

  What is it with me and making a fool of myself in front of gorgeous men? First, it was Angelo on the plane, now it’s this guy here. It’s as if I forgot how to talk to men while I was in a relationship, and now, now that it sort of matters how men perceive me (well, only if I ever want another one, and the jury is still out on that), it frustrates me, just how weird I’m coming across.

  ‘Why not?’ the man says, heading behind the bar.

  I feel as if I must’ve caught him about to take a break or something, but he’s started making my drink now, looking around behind the bar for the various tools and ingredients.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks me.

  ‘Lila,’ I reply. ‘What’s yours?’

  The man smiles.

  ‘I’m Freddie.’

  Freddie is tall, maybe 6´ 3˝. He looks quite broad too, which makes me wonder what’s going on underneath that shirt of his. I can tell, as he shakes my drink, that he must be quite muscular – muscles he must’ve got throwing around something much heavier than a cocktail shaker. He has a mess of brown hair on top of his head, which he pushes out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Interestingly, despite being tall, dark and handsome, he has the most vivid blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

  Freddie finds me getting lost in his eyes. As he gives me a cheeky smile, I notice the dimples that form in his cheeks.

  This might be my broken heart and booze consumption talking, but he is possibly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in real life. He seems to ooze charm and warmth and there’s just something about his nature, I don’t know, I feel as if I know him.

  ‘One porn star martini,’ he says, placing it down on the bar in front of me.

  The cocktail is such a vivid pink colour, while the little shot of champagne sparkles next to it.

  ‘What do I owe you?’ I ask.

  He just smiles and laughs.

  ‘It’s on me,’ he replies. ‘I think I’ll
join you for one, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘I’d be glad of the company,’ I admit.

  Freddie walks back around the bar with his drink and sits down next to me.

  ‘So, how do you drink yours?’ he enquires curiously.

  At the moment the answer is ‘quickly and en masse’, but today isn’t a usual day.

  I watch as Freddie squeezes his passion fruit into his drink. He pours his shot of champagne in before giving it a stir with his finger. He looks at me, waiting for an answer, as he lightly sucks the fruity alcohol off his fingertip. Perhaps I’m thirstier than I realised.

  ‘I, erm…’ Pull yourself together, Lila. ‘Not like that. I drink mine separately. A porn star martini is like ordering a drink that comes with a free mini drink. Usually, my best friend and I use our shots to toast something before knocking them back.’

  Today, at the airport, I was toasting alone. Here’s to me, free of my bastard fiancé. Here’s to my holiday, which I don’t have to share with anyone. Here’s to the rest of my life, which it looks as if I’m going to be spending all by myself. I soon stopped toasting myself, when I realised that, with each drink, the toasts were getting bleaker.

  ‘A free mini drink.’ Freddie laughs to himself. ‘I’ve never heard that before. I like it.’

  I smile, suddenly feeling a little nervous for some reason. Then I realise I’m self-conscious, because of my scruffy outfit.

  ‘Sorry, I bet not many people walk in here like this,’ I say, gesturing down at my tracksuit.

  ‘Not many people walk in here at all at this time,’ he replies. ‘Couples are all in bed – after such busy days, I don’t suppose anyone wants a middle of the night martini. Your hair looks really nice.’

  I am blindsided by his compliment.

  ‘Oh, this?’ I say, suddenly even more self-conscious as I run my hand gently from top to tail of my long, blonde fishtail plait. ‘I was at a wedding yesterday. I feel kind of daft with it now. I look like Elsa from Frozen.’

  Freddie cracks up.

  ‘Well, you know what to do, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Let it go.’

  I stare at him, a combination of amused and puzzled.

  ‘Like the song, from the film…’

  ‘I know that,’ I laugh. ‘I’m just surprised you do.’

  ‘Erm, thirty-two-year-old men can enjoy Frozen too,’ he points out.

  ‘I’ll be thirty-two next,’ I reply. I don’t know why I tell him, like it’s so amazing to have our age in common, so I quickly get back on topic. ‘You know what, I will let my hair down.’

  First I remove the hair grips that have been keeping the hair around my hair so neatly in place. Then I unfasten the clear plastic elastic band from the bottom and let my hair unravel – as my life has.

  As I tszuj my newly freed hair, I realise that the plait has left me with some sort of crimped effect. I run my hands over it, but I can feel how big and eighties it must be looking.

  ‘Oh, God, that was a mistake, wasn’t it?’ I say. Freddie just chuckles. ‘Should I have left it in?’

  ‘Yeah, probably,’ he teases. ‘You still look beautiful though.’

  I can feel my cheeks flushing so I turn my attention to my drink, finally taking a sip.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ I blurt. ‘This is the nicest one I’ve had over the past couple of days.’

  And I have had many.

  ‘Have you had many?’ he asks with a laugh.

  I feel as if he’s reading my mind and it sends a strange tingle through my body.

  ‘Erm, no,’ I reply. ‘Just a couple.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you like it,’ he replies. He sips his. ‘Oh, yeah, that’s pretty nice. It’s been a while.’

  ‘You don’t make many of these?’

  ‘Not any more, no.’

  It surprises me that they’re not more popular here. Back home, it’s still one of the cocktails du jour, even with the espresso martini hot on its heels. I’m starting to think I use a lot of casual French, for someone who doesn’t think she remembers much French… and is in Italy.

  ‘How did you get so good at it?’ I ask, not really expecting an answer. Freddie has one though.

  ‘I learned from the second best, who learned from the best,’ he explains. ‘I used to work at a bar in LA, called Dionysus. Hugely popular bar over there. The owner, the man who trained me, was taught how to make them by the inventor. He said it was such a simple drink, but so easy to mess up, if you didn’t do it right.’

  ‘Well, you do it right,’ I say. I realise I’m drinking it quite quickly but it’s not like earlier, because I was drowning my sorrows, it’s because it genuinely tastes incredible.

  ‘I wish I could make cocktails,’ I say. ‘Instead of having to pay 12 pound a pop for them in London bars.’

  ‘It’s really not that hard, once you know what you’re doing,’ he tells me. ‘Would you like me to show you?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ he replies. ‘It’s been so quiet in here through the night this week, I guarantee no one will come in.’

  ‘Erm, okay, sure,’ I reply excitedly.

  ‘Okay, let’s do it.’

  There’s a real spring in my step as I follow Freddie around to the business side of the bar. This is the last thing I thought I’d be doing tonight.

  ‘The Negroni is one of my favourite cocktails,’ he starts. ‘So I figure, when in Rome – or reasonably close to it, I suppose – why not make something Italian?’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  Freddie glances around the bar, looking for the things we need. It’s strange – for someone who makes such amazing cocktails, it takes him a little searching to find everything.

  ‘Okay, so, we’re making a Negroni Sbagliato,’ he explains. ‘The Negroni is pretty strong, and you seem to like sweet drinks, so we’ll give this a shot.’

  ‘Sounds even better.’

  Freddie places bottles down in front of me.

  ‘Campari, sweet vermouth, champagne,’ he says. ‘Follow my lead.’

  I watch Freddie closely, doing exactly as he does, only with much less confidence and potentially zero style.

  ‘So, what do you do?’ he asks me.

  ‘I write books,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh, nice. What genre?’

  ‘Contemporary romance,’ I say. ‘Rom-coms.’

  ‘Nothing like Edge of Eden then?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’ I laugh. ‘Everyone always asks me if it’s like that – it’s that or Fifty Shades of Grey. My books aren’t exactly PG, but they certainly aren’t mucky books.’

  ‘Mucky books?’ He chuckles. ‘I love your accent, Lila. There’s something so attractive about the English accent.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘I can imagine American ladies finding Hugh Grant swoonsome, but… I always thought I sounded a bit “apples and pears”.’

  I can’t think of a better way to describe a strong London accent.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to get all your jokes, am I?’ Freddie asks, bemused.

  ‘You’re not the first person to say that, don’t worry.’

  ‘I got that one,’ he replies with a laugh.

  We hold eye contact for a moment, exchanging smiles. I can feel him, drawing me in, deeper and deeper.

  ‘So, what’s next?’ I ask, snapping us out of it.

  ‘Where are the oranges?’ he asks himself as he hunts around.

  We garnish our drinks with a wheel of orange. They look incredible, they smell amazing – I wonder how they taste…

  ‘Let’s give them a go,’ he says.

  I reach for my glass, but Freddie stops me.

  ‘No, no, you drink mine, I’ll drink yours,’ he says.

  I look at him with all the discomfort you’d give someone you suspected of spiking your drink, but what I’m actually worried about is a barman trying a drink made by me, an amateur. Not that it matters – I’m not tr
ying for a job here. But there’s just something about Freddie, something I like… something that makes me want to impress him.

  ‘Erm,’ I say hesitantly.

  ‘I can tell you if you did a good job,’ he says. ‘It sounds like you’ve been drinking indiscriminately all day – you won’t be a very good judge of quality, will you?’

  Oh, God, I like it when he teases me.

  ‘Come on,’ he insists, nudging his drink towards me.

  ‘OK, fine, but if it’s horrible, please pretend it’s nice. It’s my first time. You don’t want to knock my confidence, do you?’

  ‘I’ll be gentle,’ he assures me.

  As I slide my drink towards Freddie, he reaches for it at the same time and our hands collide. He lets his hand linger on mine and it feels really good… until my brain ruins it for me.

  I just realised, all of a sudden, that while I’ve been here I’ve completely pushed Daniel out of my head. I feel so weirdly guilty, for being here with this guy, feeling happy and flirty, when I know I should technically be celebrating my wedding night right now. I’m doing the opposite, and enjoying it? That doesn’t seem right.

  I quickly snatch my hand away and take an over-large gulp of my drink.

  ‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ I say. ‘I’ve probably had enough for one day though. I should get to bed.’

  ‘Okay,’ he replies. ‘Where are you staying? I can walk you back.’

  ‘No, don’t be daft. You stay here.’

  ‘There’s nothing here for me,’ he replies. ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I insist, standing up, edging towards the door. ‘Thank for the drinks.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he calls after me.

  As I walk up the hill, towards my villa, I mentally kick myself for feeling guilty, and being loyal to Daniel when it’s the last thing he deserves. He might not have cared that we were in a relationship, or that it was our wedding day, but I can’t just shut those things out of my head – not for more than a few minutes at least.

  As delicious as those cocktails were, I’ve definitely had too much to drink today. Extenuating circumstances, your honour, but I still feel sick, and I’ll still feel hungover in the morning.