Page 66 of Hot to Go

He shakes his head. ‘Of all the friends I made. Here, this man was called Pablo. I lived in a flat above him. He was sixty-five, his wife made exceptional gazpacho and he still sends me a Christmas card every year.’ He offers me the book to look through and I study all the notes made with such care and attention.

‘It’s veryEnglish Patient,’ I say, looking at some of the sketches and notes. He looks over at me and furrows his brow. ‘Sorry, niche reference.’

He pauses then shakes his head, dismissing the idea. ‘Where did you have your year out?’ he asks.

‘Guess…’

He shakes his head and grins. ‘Nice?’

I don’t answer but smile. He roars with laughter and I see some of the kids arching their heads over to have a look. I turn back to flick through the pages of this journal that speaks of someone who loved his travels, who loved the culture, the city. When I hand it back to him our fingers brush against each other and I try to ignore the charged feeling I get when my skin touches his. I don’t trust that spark anymore. I try and change the subject. ‘Lola said you gave her your hoodie?’

‘Yep, it was question of her modesty over my warmth. I justhope she gives it back. I’ve lost too many good hoodies to thieving girls over the years,’ he moans. ‘Keep eyes on her.’

I smile. ‘Are you cold?’

‘Nah, it’ll warm up by the time we get to Seville.’

We both pause to take in what those words mean, as the plane gets to the start of the runway, engines growling to a start to summon up the power to take off. He holds on to both of his armrests, fists clenched around the corners of it, taking heavy deep breaths.

‘Are you alright?’ I ask.

‘Nope,’ he says a little too quickly. I can physically see him gulp as the plane starts to pick up speed.

‘Charlie,’ I whisper. This explains the attention to detail with the emergency cards. ‘It’s the safest way to travel, you know.’

‘That is a myth. The safest way to travel is to walk.’

‘You’d rather walk to Seville?’ I tell him. ‘You’d get there in time for Christmas.’

‘No, I’d get there for November. I’d walk quickly.’ He closes his eyes but smiles.

The plane picks up speed, until that moment when we are slammed back into our seats, the force lifting us slowly into the air, the windows rattling lightly. I’m different, I’ve always liked that feeling, that charge down the runway, the roar, the anticipation. And then you’re floating. The world is behind you. I turn to Charlie – every part of him tense, strained – and I put my hand over his. I squeeze it tightly.

Charlie

‘Sir, you told us that it would be about twenty degrees, it’s bloody boiling!’ Viraj says, stripping off his tracksuit top and tying it round his waist. It’s not just him, it’s our whole group who stand there outside the youth hostel on the pavement, strippingoff their layers to escape the heat, admiring the blue skies and the sun shining like a beacon above us. Hola, sunshine, how I’ve missed you. Over by the coach, I notice Suzie, taking off her hoodie to reveal a vest top, sunglasses on and looking up to the sun to absorb the warmth. It’s a pose that triggers a bit of déjà vu so I quickly look away. Suzie is here on this trip. It’s fine. She’s here because she’s a good professional who wanted to save the trip. She’s not here because of me. She’s not here because of me. She did hold my hand when the plane took off because I have an irrational fear of flying. And then she had a little nap and her head landed on my shoulder. That wasn’t out of choice. That was because I was next to her and the physics of the situation meant her head leaned towards me. I close my eyes. Did her hair smell nice, though? Yes, it did.

‘You can have this back now, Sir,’ Lola tells me, snapping me out of my trance and throwing my hoodie at me.

‘Thank you kindly, Lola,’ I say, marvelling at how she is immediately the most suitable person dressed for this heat.

‘And this is Señor Shaw. Say hello, Sir!’ she says, immediately sticking her phone in my face.

‘¡Hola!’ I say, waving into the screen. ‘Is this some sort of vlog, Lola?’

‘Of course.’

‘A perfect time to practise your Spanish skills, ¿sí?’

‘You’re so funny, Sir!’

I watch as she heads into the hostel and I hand out the rest of the trolley bags in the hold. I can do this. Keep my distance, respect the boundaries as a work colleague. I feel the sweat running down the back of my T-shirt, starting to run down my brow. The hostel is in the heart of the city, and the drive over was less scenic and more roads of low-rise industrial estates, palm trees and fast-food places; the children all marvelling at the fact there was a McDonald’s here. Arriving in the city involved entering rabbit-warren-style roads, our coach fightingagainst the narrow Andalucian streets. I always liked that, the lack of tarmac, the rustic feel of the streets, old ladies dragging trolley bags along noisily with their shopping, people sitting outside cafés casually, legs up on seats, everything slowed down because of the heat, the vibrant sound of Spanish flitting in and down the streets like birdsong. And then we got to our hostel: a satsuma-coloured building with cast-iron balcony railings at each window. Mosaics spell out the language school name and street number and I look up to see that building reach into the sky, the orange perfectly set against the bright blue. The street is crowded with cars and the heat radiates off the cobbles. It’s familiar and drenched in sun and I inhale deeply to let that heat enter my body.

‘Gracias, Señor,’ I tell the coach driver.

‘¡Suerte, Señor!’ he says, grinning broadly to see all the kids gathering in the foyer of the hostel. That’s what the last bloke said on a similar coach in Mallorca. Stag do or school trip. I don’t know what the lesser of two evils is but if anyone gets on a mechanical bull here then they are on their own. I walk towards the hostel where Lee and his plastic pockets of registers and organisation stands in the foyer. He takes a long drink of water and tries waving his hand in the air.

‘Señores and señoritas, I know we are all tired but let’s sort this out and then we will leave you alone to find your rooms before we have lunch and head out. Young man, can you put your shirt back on please? You are not a football hooligan. I am giving you keys. Do not lose these keys! And no arguments about the rooming, please.’

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