Page 24 of Hot to Go

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 señor.’

I pause to have a think. Señor. 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 française.’

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.

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. Rememberyou’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.’

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