Page 17 of Hot to Go

‘Noooo,’ Emma says aghast. She walks over to the swing and examines it closely. ‘I don’t want to think how many people have used this? We’ll have to go into town and get some bleach.’ I’m too shocked but I have to side with Grace here, this is mildly hilarious.

‘Danny, this isn’t funny. How can we sleep on these beds knowing what goes on here? I could catch things.’

‘Chlamydia,’ Emma mutters under her breath. ‘Herpes, BV, ringworm.’ She goes over to a wardrobe and opens it to see racks of sex toys, arranged like one would hang guns and ammo. She puts her hand to a mouth like she’s just found a dead body. ‘Oh, god, this is what that note in the kitchen meant. Don’t put the toys in the dishwasher…’

I look over at Grace now and can’t stop laughing. Those were likely nipples in that painting downstairs so I’m not a pervert at all.

Meg has moved into the bathroom. ‘For the love of God, Danny. There’s a rack of strap-ons in here.’

And my more muted laughter suddenly erupts. ‘Oh my, that’s what Rosa meant when she said there were items in thebathroom. When she questioned why there weren’t any men. It’s because she thought we were all…’

‘On a lesbian sex holiday…’ Emma says, nodding her head and looking like she might pass out from the shock.

‘Who was this contact? You go and ask him how this is all cleaned. Lucy is in the pool. God knows what could swim up her bits,’ Meg’s voice echoes through the walls. ‘Did you know? I bet you knew. This is the sort of thing you’d find funny. What do you mean? Didn’t you look at the pictures? You always look at the pictures. There’s a whole drawer of butt plugs.’

Grace really can’t breathe now as Emma goes to sit on the edge of the bed, not realising it’s a water bed and falling right into it, the waves making her bob around, unable to find her feet. ‘Oh my god!’ she screams. ‘Get me off this fucking thing. I can’t…’

Grace and I would help if we weren’t doubled over in laughter. Turns out Emma really can swear if she needs to.

Charlie

‘NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA!’

Christ. I’m trying to work out if I can get the coach driver to slow down so I can roundhouse kick Andy off this vehicle. I reckon everyone who’s not a part of our stag do would hail me as a hero because this impromptu chanting/singing is not what we all need at this time of morning.

Maybe focus on the sight of leafy palms, sandy beaches, blue skies and mountains zipping past the windows, and just try to imagine Andy, conductor of the world’s crappest boyband, isn’t here. I really don’t want to hear club classics as sung by a group of twentysomething young men. I want late nineties chillout if possible. I want to feel that deep relaxation of knowing you’re somewhere else in the world, you’re on holiday, you’ve escaped. I don’t want to have to make constant backwardglances to the back of the coach to a group of older men tutting and rolling their eyes. I reckon I could take Andy on. He’s not Captain America anymore – the cabin crew made us change as Max’s Hulk outfit made a small child cry. But in fact we look far worse now. Some of us (me) had the good sense to pack a change but the rest of us are just wearing cobbled together items from people’s cabin bags. Coops is in a polo shirt that’s two sizes too small so it clings a little too much to his shapely frame. God help the lad who didn’t have time to take off his purple face paint. Andy is literally in a rash guard and swim shorts, bopping from seat to seat, the music blasting from his phone. The bus slows down but brakes suddenly so Andy loses his footing and stumbles, dropping said phone. I look at the driver in the rearview mirror and catch his eye. I saw that. Well done, that man.

‘Playa del Sol. The Playa del Sol hotel,’ he says in loud annoyed tones.

‘YES LADS! This is US!’ all the stags cheer, as we stumble off that coach and I try to do some damage control with the other coach passengers with mumbled thank yous, explanations and my hand to the air in an apologetic wave.

‘Gracias, siento mucho el ruido,’ I tell the driver as I disembark. I slip ten euros into his hand and he looks at me strangely. I don’t know if it’s the fluent Spanish or the crappy tip but he nods silently.

‘¡Suerte, señor!’

Good luck. I think I might need it.

I step off the coach where the lads have already made their loud and boisterous entrance into the reception. We booked a package holiday to keep the costs down and this meant many things: a cheap early-morning flight but a cheerful all-inclusive party palace hotel. We are here for the unlimited drinks, the beach access, and the foam parties. I have a feeling it will be a bit of a shagfest with hangovers, house music and a bit too muchhalf naked ass on display but at least we’re abroad. Even if this becomes debauched and ridiculous, just being near the sea with the mountains in the background feels like a massive weight off my shoulders. The air already feels and smells cleaner but there is something about the heat simmering in the air, the sun in the sky, that feels energising. I close my eyes, enjoying the prickle of it on my skin.

‘Let’s have it, lads!’ Three seconds of serenity. That’s all I got there. I spy Andy through the doors, still pissing about whilst Max does his best to check them all in. I head over to him, the coolness of the reception air a welcome break from the heat, laughing at Max as I know he still needs his fingers to count.

‘All good?’ I ask.

‘Yep,’ he says, a little blurry eyed. From downing pints in the airport pub to cheeky cans on the plane, I can see the constant drinking is starting to take effect. ‘We can’t get in the rooms until three but they said they can store our bags and we can hang at the pool until then, grab some lunch, head to the beach?’

‘Check out the talent,’ Andy says, eyeing up some girls who have just come out of the breakfast buffet in an assortment of tiny shorts and cut-out swimsuits. I grimace at him slightly. ‘I say we head to the pool, have a dip, get them Estrellas in?’ Andy announces to everyone. There are cheers and murmurs of approval. I look at Max still sorting the paperwork and directing bags into a cupboard next to reception. Or maybe he could help his mate rather than thinking about where his next drink is coming from? How am I going to do three days with this man? I’ve already wanted to shove him out of a bus, now I want to drown him.

I put a hand to Max’s back as they all disperse to the gardens of this well-landscaped hotel and its large winding tropical lagoon style pools.

‘I’ve got you, bro. Here, you deal with all the signatures and key cards. I’ll do the bags.’

He smiles. I spy a black trolley bag marked with Andy’s name. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but an evil whim overwhelms, and I slip it into a trolley headed out towards the airport. Sorry, not sorry. I can hear him out by the pool area, still singing like a howling dog. I turn to Max leaning over the reception counter, looking like he’s struggling.

‘You still with me?’ I ask him.

He holds his head in his hands, scrunching up his hair. ‘I shouldn’t have drunk so much at the airport. I think that, mixed with the heat, has got me…’ he says.

I prop him up and then turn to the receptionist. ‘Disculpe, señorita. ¿Tiene usted agua?’

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