Page 34 of Hot to Go

For the first time this hour, I laugh from my belly. ‘Love you, Luce. See you in a bit.’

As I hang up, I look down at my phone. Why didn’t we swap numbers? I don’t even have a last name, a name of his yoga company. I put Carlos into Facebook and filter the city down to Palma de Mallorca. Crap. That’s like putting the name John into a city like Bristol. Do I just sit here and scroll through them? What about Carlos-Yoga-Mallorca? A search result comes up with something and my heart suddenly flutters out of my chest, but the picture is of an older-looking man with tight grey curls who does retreats in the mountains and has taken a vow of silence.

I walk along the foam for a bit until I get to the rocks where we first met. Two kids skip along the rocks, while some social media influencer type sits there with a selfie stick possibly trying to vlog and take photos. I perch on a rock and take a drink out of my bag, looking down at Carlos’ T-shirt which I’d laundered and hung out to dry in the sun, ready to return to him. I guess that’s mine now. If I’m being honest, we didn’t talk that much. We traded in banter and really didn’t swap much in the way of proper, getting-to-know-you conversations. All I know is that his favourite colour is green, he can’t whistle and he has a scar on his left buttock because he once sat on a barbeque skewer. All the important stuff then. Maybe I just misread all the signs like I normally do. Or maybe he’s just an asshat who followed the needs of his penis,as opposed to his heart. And for a moment, I think of Paul who did the same thing. I really know how to choose them. I just need to keep moving, don’t I? It’s worked so far. Focus on Meg’s birthday. Maybe I should just get naked in the sea now and see if any other good-natured men want to fish me out. I sigh deeply, putting my face up to the sun to take in the heat, the light. Things were brighter these last few days, Suzie, and let’s keep them that way. Thank you, Carlos, for that much.

Right, I need to head back. I pick up my stuff, sliding a shirt over my shoulders and trudge through the sand, past palm trees and towards the relative cool and shade of the streets, heading to the market and arcades that Carlos and I went to that night.

‘¡Hola! ¡Hola, señorita!’ a woman says, accosting me in the street. I vaguely recognise her in her crumpled T-shirt and floral apron. I look up. Her shop looks different by day but she points to a mermaid towel hanging up and points to me. That is me, I was the mermaid.

‘Sí. ¡Hola! ¿Qué tal?’

‘¿Señor? ¿Dónde está el guapo?’ I smile. I know what that means in Spanish at least. Where’s the fit fella? How do I say we had a mega shag but now he’s left me for dust? I shrug my shoulders, not really knowing how to communicate that he’s vanished. She sees a sadness in my eyes and beckons me into the shop. ‘Para usted,’ she says, handing me a fridge magnet. It has a little map of Mallorca and a lizard on it. I smile. ‘A veces los hombres pueden ser unos cerdos.’ I nod. I think she said something about pigs so I agree. I hold it to my heart as she puts a hand to my face. ‘Bonita, bonita.’

‘Gracias, señora.’

She waves maniacally and I have no option but to do the same. In the day, this street is achingly brighter. The heat radiates off it, leaving a thick mist of dust in its wake. I weave around slow-moving taxis and mopeds until I get to a streetcorner and see a man frying bunyols on the corner under some palms.

I walk up to him, smiling. ‘Hola señor, doce bunyols, gracias.’ The man with his weathered skin and crooked smile nods, placing them in a paper bag and sprinkling them with sugar. I don’t know how he’s standing over hot oil in this heat, but well done. ‘These are super delicioso,’ I tell him, and he laughs. I hand over my money, putting the bag aside for the sisters. Fried doughnuts will make things better. I look up and down the roads thinking of the best way to get back to the villa, and then realise the best way is probably to head to the nearest hotel and grab a taxi. Playa del Sol looks cheap and cheerful and, from the looks of it, there’s a heavy flow of people so hopefully it means I’ll be able to get some transport from there. I dart across the road and head inside for a slight reprieve from the heat. It’s buzzing with activity but the cool white floors and fans are a welcome escape. Even so, I’m glad we’ve ended up staying somewhere quieter as I can’t imagine Lucy sunning her yoni anywhere near here. I wonder what the new villa will look like. I just want somewhere to read. Instead of searching out distraction sex, maybe I need to go more cerebral. Meditate, drink iced coffee and finally get through the new David Nicholls in my bag. Literature and sunlight will soothe my soul. To hell with men. Being nosy, I peer around this hotel for a moment though. The buzzing buffet, a child running through reception with a massive inflatable tyre, two women in matching leopard print sarongs fanning themselves on the sofas, complaining about the heat and the fact their flights have been cancelled. Again. Outside on the lawn, I notice some sort of aerobics class happening. Rather them than me but a thought suddenly strikes me. He taught yoga in hotels. Maybe? I go up to reception.

‘Hola.’

‘Hola señorita, how can I help?’

‘I…I took a yoga class here a few days ago with a man calledCarlos. Brown hair, about six foot, and I was just wondering if he did other classes I could join in,’ I explain. I hope that was convincing enough and she doesn’t ask to see a key card.

‘Carlos, you say?’ she says. My heart skips a beat in my chest. ‘Our yoga instructors are called Santi and Ana. Are you sure you might not have been mistaken?’ My shoulders drop again.

‘My mistake.’

‘We have a man called Carlos who plays in the flamenco trio. But he’s not six foot tall. He’s also fifty-five.’

‘Then not him, I really am sorry. I must have got confused,’ I say. I turn quickly to mask my embarrassment but bump into the person behind me in the queue, his leg in a cast and trying his best to hobble around on crutches. He winces as I walk into his leg. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. God…’

The man senses my frustration and immediately stops, seeing my distress. ‘Look, it’s OK. I mean it’s broken anyways.’

I stop to look at him and his cast where someone has drawn an unfortunately large penis and signed it Andy. At least someone is having a worse time of it than me. ‘Geez, broken? How did you do that?’

‘You don’t want to know, it’s slightly embarrassing.’

‘I once took out a tooth by tripping up the stairs,’ I say pointing to one of my crooked front teeth.

He laughs. ‘My brother and I were in a bullfight.’ I don’t know whether that’s a joke or not as I’m sure it’s important to be morally opposed to such things so I laugh politely. ‘It’s my stag do – stupid really. I’ll now be spending the rest of my time here showering in a plastic bag and talking to travel insurance people.’

‘Ouch. How is your fiancée going to feel about this then?’

‘We may have twisted the truth a little and told her we fell down an open lift shaft,’ he says through gritted teeth.

‘Well, good luck then…Here…’ I say, reaching into the paper bag in my basket. I unravel the paper bag of freshly fried doughnuts. ‘These are called bunyols. You need one more than me.’

He seems taken aback by the gesture and balances on the one leg to take one. As he does, I notice his eyes, bright blue like someone I know. Or knew. Or didn’t really know at all.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks me, thoughtfully. Maybe he can see the slump returning to my shoulders.

I give a small smile. ‘Yeah, I hope you get to enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

A friend suddenly appears, strutting up behind him, and looks me up and down. ‘Oi, oi, Maxi Boy. Even though one leg’s broken, glad to see the other two work. You alright, babe?’ he says to me, leching in his dayglo shorts and football top.

‘Yeah, no. I’m good, thanks,’ I say, my nostrils flared widely. Even though I am sad and all my hope and self-esteem is in the gutter, no.

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