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FIVE

Suzie

Right, work with me here. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing.

One minute I was swimming for what felt like my life and my freedom, then the next I was by some rocks conversing with a strange Spanish man who could have been either friend or foe.

He started speaking Spanish, so all my Spanish went out the window.

I thought he might murder me. He thought I was French so I spoke a bit of every language – just trying to work out a way to get out of the sea without him seeing everything.

As the conversation progressed, I panicked and kept talking with a bizarre French accent and when he asked my name, I had no idea what to do.

I didn’t want to give my real name in case he was an undercover policeman, and I also wanted to protect myself, so I became Aurelie, standing in an oversized Stussy T-shirt trying desperately to pull it down so it became a dress.

Aurelie was the name of the French penpal I had when I was twelve.

She had a dog called Bijou and her favourite colour was brown, which I always thought a little odd .

‘What are these called again?’ I ask him, stuffing another fried doughnut in my mouth.

‘Bunyols,’ he tells me, miming an action that suggests perhaps I have to dust a little icing sugar off my chin. I smile, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

When we got off the beach, we managed to find a strip of shops with a food market and I watched as he ordered these fried doughnut balls expertly, trying to catch every word.

I also watched as he haggled with a souvenir shop and got us both new wardrobes.

I don’t know what we look like to outsiders but I now sit here in a hooded beach towel that is supposed to make me look like a mermaid, usually the remit of five-year-olds.

It has Mallorca written across the hem and it’s teamed with matching flip flops.

He’s wearing a brand new lilac Mallorca T-shirt complete with palm tree and seashells.

We look like we’re big fans of this place.

I turn to him on this bench, our little street food picnic separating us, as we look out on to the sea, the neon buzz of bars and shops behind us.

‘I must pay you back for this when I find my clothes and my phone,’ I tell him.

‘No importa,’ he says casually. His accent feels a bit stronger than before but my lord, the multi-lingualism is quite impressive.

Stop it, Suzie. You’ve just met this Spaniard.

You have no idea who he is. I don’t know how to be more French but I put some accents on words to keep up the illusion, grateful that we’ve worked out our common ground is English.

‘You feel a little more warmed up?’ he asks.

I nod and take a sip of my café con leche.

I’m still trying to work Carlos out. I don’t think he’s a threat or a dick but blimey, he’s quite good looking.

Close up, his eyes are bright blue and his hair is brown and tousled, a dimple to his left cheek as he smiles.

I’ve also seen his chest and it’s not awful.

I don’t know what awful is really but I did date someone called Maz once who had a lot of hair.

He used to comb it. Bonjour. Remember you’re French.

He keeps looking over at me and I have flashbacks to the beach, the moment where I emerged from the sea, him with his top off.

The absolute cinema of it, the way that could have turned into something mildly erotic were it not for all that nipple talk.

‘Lilac is really your colour,’ I say. ‘Compliments your…’

‘Nipples?’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ I say laughing.

‘Look at us. It’s just holiday vibes. I should have bought a bum bag.’

‘One of those big straw hats,’ I add.

‘I mean, we can go back…’ he suggests. ‘She liked me in there.’

‘It’s because you’re…’ I don’t know how to put this. He gives off good energy. It’s warm and likeable. I didn’t get everything he said, but he was polite and complimented her and held the step ladder for her when she had to grab my towel off a high shelf. ‘Spanish?’

‘Maybe,’ he says, biting into his empanada he bought at the market. ‘So tell me, little mermaid…how are we going to get you home? You said you’re staying at a villa.’

As warm as the man’s energy is, I’m also wary of giving him too much detail.

‘Yes. I got separated from my group.’ The thought suddenly strikes me that maybe I should have spent more time looking for my cousins or worried about their whereabouts. I think they made it to shore. I just hope they’re not all in a prison cell waiting for me to bail them out.

‘Do we know any telephone numbers?’ he asks me. ‘I can lend you my phone if you need to call them.’

‘Is it awful I don’t know their numbers? C’est terrible,’ I say, throwing in some French to actually go along with this charade.

‘No one knows numbers these days. Do you remember the name of the villa? The road? Maybe we can get you a taxi?’ he tells me.

But there is something in me that doesn’t want this little bench date to end.

I just want to sit here for a little bit longer, with this random Spaniard.

I don’t know how to tell him that without giving him the wrong idea because this moment with the palms and streetlights hovering over us feels like a very calm antidote to the panic of half an hour ago. ‘Whenever you’re ready, no pressure.’

‘You’re very polite,’ I tell him.

‘Isn’t everyone?’ he asks.

‘You’d be surprised,’ I tell him, thinking immediately of Paul. ‘You’re respectful of my personal space, there’s the way you lent me your T-shirt to protect my modesty…’

He shrugs. ‘The fact was I was very warm. I was going to take it off anyway. You did me a favour. It looked better on you in any case.’ I can’t quite take the compliment and look away for a minute to avoid the intensity of his eyes, to resist the temptation to tell him I’d quite like him to disrespect my personal space.

I can’t say that out loud. ‘But I was raised right, you can blame mi madre,’ he says, smiling, looking out towards the beach.

‘So, Aurelie…where in France are you from?’

‘Nice.’

‘Nice,’ he replies. ‘That was an awful joke.’

‘I hear it all the time. Yourself? Where do you live in Mallorca?’

He pauses and I can’t tell if he wants to share that information with me.

Crap, he’s married or something, isn’t he?

I may be crossing a line. He’s just a nice man who helped me out, and it’s nothing but a good reminder that despite what the universe has delivered to you of late, those sorts of men do exist.

‘Palma. I am a teacher.’

Do I tell him I do the same? I won’t. I’ve already really distorted-slash-abandoned the truth by telling him I’m French. I’m not sure how I extend this lie. It’s fine. He’s a random Spaniard and I’ll probably never see him again. Maybe I just have some fun with this. ‘What do you teach?’

He frowns momentarily before answering. ‘Yoga. I go from hotel to hotel and do classes.’

‘Wow. You must be…’ Don’t say bendy, don’t say bendy. ‘Zen.’

He laughs and I smile at the sound. Being back on dry land, I feel the warmth of that Balearic heat again, but I can also feel that I am warming to this man, and a need to try and sit a bit closer to him.

‘Do you have any recommendations for my holiday then, Carlos?’

‘The markets in the plazas are great. That church is one of the oldest in Mallorca. You have to try traditional paella.’ He says paella like a Spanish person. ‘There’s the beaches, walks in the mountains. It depends what you’re into.’

‘What I’m into?’ I ask, blushing.

‘What do you want from your holiday? I see you like the risk of a naked swim.’

‘It’s just the group I was with, mes cousines , we wanted to be more spontaneous. I wanted to let go a little.’

‘Why?’ he asks me earnestly, leaning into me to show interest in my story as opposed to be leary. I allow our knees to touch slightly and feel a spark from the contact.

I shake my head. ‘You don’t need the details. But there was something very freeing about the water. I would recommend it.’

He smiles. ‘Oh, I do it all the time. It’s what we Spanish do. It’s good for the…’

‘Bunyols?’ I say holding up another fried doughnut.

He chokes a little on his drink and laughs.

I like making him laugh like that. I put the bag out to offer him another doughnut and his fingers brush mine as he takes one.

The touch makes the breath tight in my chest. He turns to me and smiles that warm smile again.

I need to try and trust this feeling – it feels too magnetic, too right.

Even if I am wearing a mermaid hooded towel.

‘OH MY GOD!’ The silence is suddenly broken by Beth and Lucy running towards us, fully clothed, hair wet and matted. ‘GET AWAY FROM HER!’

Oh, shit. I suddenly realise how this must look.

I’m sitting on a park bench with a man I hardly know, in clothes that must make it look like I may have lost my goddamn mind.

A man I only know as Carlos who teaches yoga.

Lucy practically launches herself at him and he falls to the floor as she tries to twist an arm around his back. ‘FUUUUCK…’he yelps.

‘Lucy, NOOOO!’ I yell, trying to pull her off. ‘He’s cool. He’s a nice Spanish guy who helped me. He’s cool, he’s cool.’

Carlos taps out against the cobbled stones, and she lets him go as he rises to safety.

‘His name is Carlos.’

Both sisters watch him curiously as he stands there circling his arm around. ‘Les cousines?’

I nod. ‘Oui.’

I turn to Beth who’s trying her best to work this out. Why is he speaking French? Why am I wearing this towel? ‘Where did you go?’

‘I swam away in the other direction, and when I looked back…’