Page 20 of Harper's Holiday Romance
“I’m not going to disagree with you.”
The contents of my dating history in recent years could’ve been written in a small box in the top right-hand corner of an A4 piece of paper. If I had to produce a curriculum vitae for every time I needed to date someone new, I’d never get a first date; I was severely underqualified.
I was drying up. My vagina was crying out for something other than the clitoral suction stimulator I’d purchased from Lovehoney six months ago. It was basically a vibrator, but they gave it a fancy name to entice people, and it worked. The moment I started eyeing up a large contraption calledGreedy GirlI knew it was time to start sending out positive energy into the universe. There are only so many times I can accept a box from the delivery driver without dying of pure shame.
I had this reoccurring dream where the box started vibrating in the van, and the driver assumed it was some sort of detonating device and called the bomb squad to investigate, only to discover a vibrator. All this happened outside my front door whilst the neighbours watched the policeman carry the black unusually shaped rubber gadget over to me. It was unrealistic, but it frightened me to death.
“You could always date the woman from the elevator?” Sarah ridiculed.
“I can’t believe she barged you out of the way like some crazed American football player.” Billie laughed. Okay, so I might have slightly exaggerated the contact, but it certainly felt whiplash worthy.
“Wait, is that the one that’s a bit like Rugby?” I didn’t agree with sports, and they didn’t agree with me. Contrary to the belief of my friends in school I used to be exceptionally good at rounders, netball, and badminton. All sports that pose a threat of being hit in the face with a ball. Somewhere between high school and adulthood I found myself less athletic and more prone to injury.
“Yes, the buff men with shoulder pads,” Sarah pointed out.
“Ahh, okay, so Billie’s wet dream then.”
“Exactly!”
“It probably wasn’t that bad. I might have ever so slightly, maybe, potentially, perhaps have overdone it.” I seeped into the grey cushions.
“So, she didn’t barge into you like a tram at full speed?” Billie asked.
“I don’t recall saying that.”
“That’s exactly what you said,” Sarah sided with Billie.
“Can we move on?” I reached for the box of Pringles. “Let me show you a party trick.”
“I can’t wait for this,” Sarah said.
Truth be told, I didn’t have a party trick, but it changed the subject successfully.
I would not be wasting any more of my energy on Miss Elevator woman. The moment I plunged a whole Pringle into my statistically small mouth without breaking it, I had only one thought, it wasn’t that Billie looked champagne wasted, it also wasn’t anything to do with Sarah’s shoulders. They were redder than the Arsenal kit she wore to the gym that morning. Those would’ve been reasonable thoughts, instead—
I wonder if Elevator woman likes Pringles?
I needed help.
The sun set on the north side of the hotel which meant the middle pool was almost never shadowed by its surroundings, but I’d discovered a thirty-minute time slot first thing in the morning, after that my body was a slave to the harsh Mexican sun. The slight breeze I felt that morning quickly turned into a hotel weather warning. The pool concierge hastily closed all the umbrellas. I thought it was too precautious until I witnessed the wind whip itself into a frenzy and the umbrella across the pool took off like a kite into the bushes behind a row of unaware holidaymakers.
It was a close call.
A freak accident was not how I wanted to remember my time in Mexico.
The wind did not mitigate the sun, and I was growing irritable with every bead of sweat that rolled down my sizzling body. I turned from left to right, flopped on my front, and sprawled on my back. I even went as far as to turn the opposite way, prop my legs in a birthing position, and repeatedly fan myself with the cheap foam rotator fan I’d purchased online.
A fan was a fan, I thought.
I was wrong.
A fan was not a fan if it resembled a child’s toy that came in plastic packaging with a three-plus age warning in the corner. It was a waste of batteries.
I heard the noise before the culprits came into view. A group of rowdy Americans crooned some form of frat house chant.
“Sebastian your flip-flops are offensive,” said the woman in the neon bikini carrying the floating blow-up palm tree cup holder. I didn’t disagree; the way Sebastian’s flip-flops squelched from one end of the pool to the other was enough to make me want to stick cotton buds too far into my ears so I didn’t have to be subjected to the awful sound ever again.
The friend, who also found the sound of wet flip-flops as painful as a knife being scraped across a porcelain plate, proceeded to slip whilst getting into the pool. She got up, ego bruised but piña colada intact. I couldn’t tell if it was a delayed spring break sorority outing or a new reality TV show.Frat-ernising in Mexico had a ring to it.
