Page 6 of The Summer Island Swap
Imperfect where it counted.
I forced my mind back to the present. It was my fault this journey had taken forever. Once Amy had made the final payment for our accommodation, I’d said the least we could do was be economical with the flights, despite her concerns about the carbon footprint of a longer journey. Her voice had a defeatist tone as she’d agreed, but later in the year, when she needed money, she’d realise I’d been right.
So instead of flying here in just thirteen hours, with one stop in Antigua, we’d flown to Miami and then on to San Juan airport in Puerto Rico. There we’d grabbed a lunch of chicken, rice and beans. And coffee, with these cute little pastries filled with guava paste. After those, I felt almost human again and my body finally decided it was relaxed enough to sleep – unless I’d just sunk into a carbohydrate coma.
‘Have we already got tickets for the last leg of our journey?’ I asked and yawned again before pulling out my hairbrush and compact mirror.
‘Sarah. Stop worrying. It’s all in hand.’
I swallowed several times as my ears popped whilst the aeroplane continued to descend. My spirits, in contrast, soared as I studied the clearest, most turquoise seas that appeared as the white cloud thinned and disappeared. I gazed across the cluster of islands, with their vibrant forest greens and sandy golden outlines.
There had been nothing pretty about yesterday and the thing I hadn’t told Amy yet because the worry would ruin her holiday. We’d gained a large group booking at Best Travel. A group of salespeople who were holding a conference in a newly built local office building. It was one they’d be holding each month. Prue was off work – thank goodness. The atmosphere since I’d confronted her had been unbearable and for the first time in my working life I’d been tempted to ring in ill. Without her to consult, I took what I thought was the best decision and offered the sales team a discount if they booked with us again. It was a way of securing their business, even throughout the quieter autumn and spring months.
Prue phoned later in the day and when she found out about the discount came straight in. She didn’t say much at first. Her silence unnerved me. Eventually, she said I shouldn’t have authorised that without asking her first. I tried to explain my position – I told her I felt Best Travel needed to broaden its vision to stay afloat, especially as the local airport was being closed down. We could no longer rely on the bookings that brought in.
Using that wordvisionagain was a mistake. She sacked me. On the spot. Declared it had been coming a long time. Announced I was too flighty for Best Travel. That her nephew who’d worked in housekeeping for a year wanted to go into hotel management – that he understood how things worked there and deserved promotion. She’d been planning to train him to help, whilst I was away, but now thought it was best if she offered him my position permanently.
The smug look on her face suggested she’d been planning this all along.
So I didn’t have a job to go back to. That’s the other reason I didn’t tell Amy – I… felt ashamed. I’d always prided myself on being independent and always paying my own way.
A tear trickled down my cheek as I stared down at the ocean. Quickly I wiped it away.
Therefore this hotel holiday was more important to me than ever. I couldn’t face returning to a job like the one I’d had. My disagreements with Prue proved I needed more responsibility – and freedom. During these four weeks I’d learn what it took to work for a more dynamic company and arm myself with that knowledge for interviews. I’d already compiled a list of the specialised recruitment agencies I would send my revised CV to. The quicker I got a new job and salary, the less likely it was I’d have to bother Amy with financial concerns.
‘Do you think the ferry will have a shop on board?’ I asked, pushing away thoughts of my unemployment. ‘You know how Cheryl opposite loves perfume. I’m hoping to see some different brands.’
‘We won’t be taking the ferry.’ A grin crossed Amy’s face. ‘It’s a boat. Our island is only thirty minutes away. You see, it’s private.’
My heart raced. ‘Does that mean…?’
I could hardly stop myself from standing up to disembark, as the aeroplane bumped up and down on the runway. Necker Island. It had to be. The one owned by Richard Branson. I’d watched a documentary about it. Celebrities… world leaders… they all stayed there, spending tranquil days on the beach and sunsets at mouth-watering dinner parties.
Oh. My. God. Perhaps we’d become friends and he’d give me a great reference for my CV. Business tycoon, Richard Branson, had built his business empire from nothing. What an inspiration. That was one of the rare things Dad and I had in common – a respect for people who worked hard for what they wanted.
But notsohard that you hardly saw your daughters or thought family time meant attending a work barbecue to schmooze the latest client. Richard Branson seemed to have found the right balance. I’d watched footage of him kitesurfing and relaxing with loved ones next to pools with fairy lights. Impatience tightened my stomach as other passengers took their time, reaching up for their luggage. The thought of living on Necker for a whole month had reenergised me.
As we got off the aeroplane I wondered what our room’s welcome package would consist of. No doubt champagne and a basket of exotic fruit. I pictured myself, just for once, being the guest and someone looking afterme. I’d be able to catch up on Netflix shows at night and have the permanent knots in my shoulders massaged away. I could wallow in hot tubs and sleep between Egyptian cotton sheets.
‘There’s our luggage,’ said Amy, pointing at the conveyor belt. My suitcase was twice the size of Amy’s and I managed to get to it before her, even though, despite her small frame, she could deftly handle the feistiest cat or biggest dog. I didn’t want Amy to hurt her back. She’d reckoned we should travel light but I’d bought lovely new sandals, a choice of handbags and jewellery… I’d probably brought my entire summer wardrobe but it wasn’t as if I owned loads of clothes and wewereaway from home for a whole month. Ever practical Amy had tried – and failed – to get me to pack practical items like walking boots and long-sleeved shirts to protect against sunburn. Whereas I’d secretly packed the pineapple bikini she wasn’t so keen on wearing.
I wanted to look my best. That had become a habit. Right from my first week in work, all those years ago, it was drilled into me that the first impression given by a hotel’s staff was as crucial as a vacuumed welcome mat or polished glass. I’d become used to keeping my nail varnish crack-free. My foundation flawless. My clothes pristinely ironed.
I hated the tiny bit of me that thought at least how I presented myself would make Dad proud.
He’d sneered at Amy’s academic ability. My flaw apparently was my weight. Was that why I dressed myself each morning with military precision? A deep-rooted fear of being looked down on, because of my appearance? Just the thought that his sly comments could still be affecting my life, today, made me feel sick. But if your own dad mocked how you looked, you grew up believing any stranger wouldn’t hesitate to think the worst.
I followed Amy and relished stretching my legs as we went through customs and entered the airport. Her style was completely different to mine. She’d quickly run a brush through her hair in the morning, whereas mine had been clamped between straighteners and then sprayed to within an inch of its life.
Airline workers announced flight departures and people hurried past, speaking into their phones. A janitor pushed his trolley. A group of chattering schoolchildren congregated around a stressed-looking teacher. Amy’s eyes narrowed as she looked for a sign presumably bearing the word Necker. I searched too, for greying blond curls. Okay. Perhaps it was too much to expect a multi-millionaire to meet us personally. I couldn’t help grinning at how quickly I’d acquired airs of grandeur. How different my days would be here, compared to the stuffy commute to work and hours spent mucking in with housekeeping and any other department, to make sure our guests enjoyed nothing but comfort.
Not that I disliked the more basic aspects of my job. I enjoyed feeling self-sufficient. Like the time the bathroom sink got blocked in the bed and breakfast, that first month I left home. I asked the landlord to look at it. A day passed. At eighteen I soon realised life was easier if you could help yourself. So I searched on the internet and with the help of baking soda, vinegar and boiling water, unblocked it on my own.
Suddenly Amy waved at a tall, solid-looking man with a confident manner. I studied the black spiked short hair, the warmth of his deeply tanned skin that matched the warmth of his laugh that boomed across the airport. The gorgeous smile.
My stomach flipped.
Then my default position returned and mentally I rolled my eyes. Jeez, I really did need a holiday if my inner narrative read like a soppy movie. I was too old for crushes. In fact, I tried to remember the last time a man had caused that reaction.
