Page 22 of Hot to Go

‘Or the strip is just on the doorstep. There’s a street market, I researched it. They do churros and there are fellas with big pans of paella. You love paella.’

I shake my head. ‘Or I could get room service. I could watch this with you. Protect you from Meredith and Sue. I think the flowers were too much though, they think we like them.’

Max retches a little again. He takes a sip of water. ‘I don’t want both of us wasting our holiday in this room. Please. Just go for a walk or something. Have a beer in the bar. You’ve earned it.’

I go over to him and put a hand instinctively to his forehead.

‘I’m hungover, you idiot. Not ill.’

I look at his sad dehydrated little eyes. ‘Maybe I’ll go for about half an hour. If you think you’re going to throw up…’

‘Call you?’ he asks.

‘No. I don’t need to hear that sound any more today. Just use that bin. I can’t deal with this hotel hating us as much as they do already.’

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 allafternoon 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 TikTokconspiracy 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.

‘Señorita! ¡Señorita! ¿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 français.’

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?’

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