Page 15

He salutes me as I put my flip flops back on and grab my phone and wallet.

Is this the start to the holiday I wanted?

No. By this time, I thought I would have had the sun on my back all afternoon and be a couple of chapters into my book with a beer in hand, but at least it’s still warm, the sky is clear and starry and I can try and find some food.

I head down to the lobby where the overspill from the restaurant and the foam party converges as guests scramble to get taxis into town.

In short, it’s badly dressed chaos that smells like cheap aftershave and suncream.

I head outside into the hotel grounds, passing two people snogging on a sun lounger wrapped in hotel towels.

Christ, I think they’re doing more than that.

This isn’t the place for me. I walk through the pool area, away from the lights and the deep house beats towards the sea.

It’s funny how, growing up in London, any proximity to the sea feels like a luxury, an escape.

We rarely went abroad when we were younger, but we went down to Cornwall, to the Witterings, big sandy beaches that felt so different to the built-up city.

The sea always felt new, energising, like possibility.

I walk past folded-up sun loungers, closed parasols and pedalos and inflatables all chained up for the evening, taking off my flip flops as I hit the sand, rolling my feet through it, smiling.

I should have stopped off to pick up a beer though.

I walk, inhaling deeply, grateful for the peace, the evening heat warming but not unbearable.

The beach seems to be sectioned off by some rocks but they’re a perfect place to stop, collect my thoughts.

I have my phone and my AirPods; maybe I’ll listen to a podcast. I don’t care if that makes me old.

Should I be surfing in foam with wanky sunglasses, grinding against a girl in a bikini that’s held together with a few knots?

Maybe not. And for a moment, I think of Krystal.

Not just her. I think about Gemma and Adele and the disaster that has been my dating history in the last four years.

They haven’t even been epic romances, just a catalogue of bad fits and poor judgement on my part.

Gemma was the sort of girlfriend who’d follow me to the barbers to make sure they were cutting my hair right, and Adele was lovely until I realised how much time she spent falling down TikTok conspiracy wormholes and just how firmly she believed the pyramids were built by giants who had huge cats as pets.

I’m starting to give up on ever finding someone to share my life with.

Not that it makes me sad, I have a lot in my life to make me feel fulfilled.

But, on a holiday like this, I realise I’ve become the sensible one.

Have I forgotten how to have any fun? I am fun. I hope.

I settle down on a rock and put my AirPods in, but after a few minutes of listening to my podcast, I notice some splashing and, like some aquatic life nerd, I feel a flurry of excitement, wondering if it’s a seal.

I get my phone out to zoom in for a pic and then I notice it’s an actual person.

A woman? Shit. I put my phone away. I refocus my eyes.

Is it ridiculous that for a second I think she might be a mermaid?

It’s dark. She’s got more nerve than me.

Is this a thing? Night swimming? Her stroke isn’t natural, a little panicked.

I hope she’s alright. I’m standing now and I’m wondering if she’s seen me because if she has seen me, I’ll look like a pervert. I need to say something. I wave.

‘Senorita! ?Senorita! ?Estás bien? ?Puedo ayudar? ?Estás en apuros?’

She stops swimming to tread water and turns towards me. This is good. It means she’s not drowning. She doesn’t answer immediately.

‘?Es policía?’ she shouts.

She thinks I’m a policeman?

‘No, no soy policía,’ I say to reassure her. ‘Estás a salvo conmigo.’ She remains in the water, staring at me.

‘Espagnol?’

‘Sí.’ I can speak Spanish.

‘Towel? ?Una toalla?’ she asks.

‘No.’

She mumbles something under her breath and I can’t quite hear it but I hear the word ‘merde’. That’s swearing. That’s French .

‘?Eres francesa?’ I ask her.

There’s a pause. ‘Oui, je peux parler francais.’

I guess I can switch this up.

‘Oui. Yes. Avez-vous besoin de mon aide?’

I’m being a gentleman and offering my help but she looks at me like I’m stupid. Her hair is all slicked back and her eye make-up smudged from the water. What if she’s a pirate on the run? I can’t quite tell if she understands me.

‘Avez-vous des vêtements?’ She’s asking me for clothes. To make some sort of life-saving device? I don’t quite get where she’s coming from and I only have what’s on my body.

‘Pourquoi?’

She looks confused and slightly fed up. ‘I’m naked. I don’t have any clothes.’

‘They what?’ I say, struggling to hear her. Why is she changing to English now? She swims a bit closer.

‘Mi ropa, mes vêtements – GONE! Je suis naked.’

Oh. She’s starkers in the sea. I don’t quite know how to answer that. I look around the rocks and don’t see anything that she may have left here. Which brings me back to my mermaid theory. How did she get in there then?

‘I…I…Do you want me to look for your clothes?’ I shout out randomly in a mixed foreign accent trying to keep up with the strange multilingual flow of the conversation.

‘Non, no. They’re in…Another playa…Don’t worry.’

There is a moment where we both just look at each other trying to work out what the solution is. I see her bottom jaw starting to tremble with the cold. ‘You should come out. You’re cold. Let me help you.’

I step down on to the rocks to offer a hand but she puts her hands in the air.

‘I’m naked. Get back, amigo. I don’t know who you are. You could be some random Spaniard who’s going to take advantage.’

I am slightly hurt by the suggestion but also secretly pleased I could be confused for a native. ‘Look. It’s me or drowning from exhaustion. How about I take off my T-shirt and leave it on this rock and then I’ll turn around and you can come out and put it on.’

‘You’ll give me your T-shirt?’ she says, curiously.

‘Well, it’s that or the shorts. You can decide.’

I see a smile that she’s desperately trying to keep in. ‘OK. But if you turn to look then I will scream. I know stuff.’

She is a pirate. I put my hands to the air to surrender, removing my T-shirt awkwardly, not before backing away and turning to look at the beach. I hear her pulling herself up onto the rocks and then the sound of her wet footsteps.

‘OK, senor. You can turn around.’

As soon as I turn, it feels like that gameshow at home where people meet each other for the first time naked.

I do go to the gym but hello, lady who’s just emerged from the sea, this is my bare chest and those are your legs.

The night air is dim and lit by lamps on the beach but all I see are her big brown eyes, a petite frame and a face framed by wet raven hair.

She’s very pretty. I shouldn’t stare. She desperately tries to pull the T-shirt down so it doesn’t get inappropriate while I breathe in ever so slightly, not sure whether to tell her I’ve only been here for a day which is why I’m so under-tanned.

She’s still tugging the T-shirt down as far as she can so I cover my eyes to help her feel more comfortable in the situation. I hear her laugh.

‘Gracias. Sincerely gracias,’ she whispers, shivering slightly. She tilts her head, but I don’t engage, my eyes darting in different directions, anywhere but directly at her. She looks like she’s wondering what on earth I might be doing. ‘Are your eyes OK?’

‘It’s just…nipples,’ I say. I said that out loud, didn’t I?

And in English because I don’t know what the Spanish or French word is for nipples.

It’s just never come up. Until now. And they are really up.

She grabs at the material so it doesn’t cling to her.

‘I just didn’t want you to think I was staring and being weird.

’ I should stop talking about nipples. I’m grateful she’s not kicked me in the cojones and run away, stealing one of my favourite T-shirts.

‘Maybe if I looked at your nipples now, we would be even,’ she suggests, laughing.

‘Be my guest,’ I tell her, standing straight and pushing my chest out a little. She stares at them, for a good three seconds. I try not to be too self-conscious. I’d never really considered them before now. ‘Are they OK?’ I ask her.

‘They’re your nipples. Maybe you should ask them,’ she says, grinning.

‘Are you telling me to talk to my nipples?’ I ask her.

She laughs again and I’ll admit to quite liking that sound. I think I might draw a line at talking to my nipples in front of her though. She stands there shivering. The night air can’t be doing much to warm her up. ‘Look, this might seem strange but can I make an odd suggestion?’ I ask her.

‘The fact I’m wearing your clothes and staring at your nipples isn’t strange enough?’ she asks me.

‘You need to move around,’ I tell her. I simulate such movement in the form of some keep-fit dance moves.

Again, she laughs. In terms of first meets, I really am excelling here. ‘To warm up,’ she says, jogging on the spot.

‘Exactly. Or you could roll around in the warm sand…’ I suggest.

‘I could do what now?’ she says.

‘Se rouler dans le sable…’ I repeat. I look at the smirk on her face. ‘Oh, shit. Not like that. I meant like the sand is warm and you could roll. On your own.’

‘Like a meerkat,’ she asks.

We both burst into laughter and she stumbles a little on the rocks.

I put a hand out to steady her. She grabs it, another cold, wet hand lying on my bare warm chest and looks up at me.

Whoa. The physical contact catches us both off guard and we pause for a moment.

We’re touching. She realises this and lets go of my hand.

I walk her over to the safety of the beach.

‘I will feel incredibly self-conscious if you’re going to watch me roll in the sand,’ she says, trying to break the tension. ‘At least tell me your name, kind senor.’

I pause to have a think. Senor. I’m Spanish?

I like that she thinks I could be, and maybe that’s why I don’t correct her.

I guess I have been putting on a very strange accent.

Plus when you’ve just pulled a stranger out of the sea who has a bizarre story about why she’s naked then you have to be a tad apprehensive.

She could report me for being some weirdo at the beach eyeing her up. ‘Carlos…’ I blurt out.

‘Enchantée, Carlos,’ she says, looking back at me.

‘Et comment vous appellez-vous?’ I ask, in what I will assume to be her native language.

She looks at me curiously, glances away briefly, then smiles and holds out her hand to shake mine. ‘Aurelie.’

‘You were speaking a few languages out there. You’re French?’ I ask her.

She hesitates to answer. Did she not understand? ‘Je suis francaise.’

It figures. Plenty of fish in the sea, isn’t that what they say?

Lucky you, Charlie, to catch the most beautiful one out there.

Yet she’s French. Not that I have anything against the French but practically, that’s a fish living many oceans away.

I look into her eyes and smile. She smiles back and it’s a bit of a killer to see her face relax, the curve of her cheeks glistening.

Maybe I do just need to let go, take a chance, have some fun.

‘Do you know what else would warm you up?’ I tell her.

She tilts her head to the side, her eyes widening.

I put my hands up in the air. ‘Un café?’

She smiles and nods.