Zara
Morocco is like a dream, and I am utterly entranced from the moment we land at the airport. We make our way off the plane and into the heat and brilliance of the day, the scent of clove cigarettes, spice and warm vegetation all around me. It’s like nowhere I’ve ever been before.
I sink into black leather seats as the coast road flashes past. The landscape is the colour of pale sand, hills covered with low green bushes rising to our right as we follow the winding route from the airport to Taghazout. We travel through small towns, where buildings the same colour as the land rise from scrubby hills, and camels walk along the side of the road. And, to the left of us, shimmering like silk, is the sea. I open the window so I can smell it, the salt and warm air tangling in my nostrils, my hair whipping in the wind. I can feel myself relaxing, properly, for the first time in ages.
I’ve always thought living by the sea meant somewhere in the UK, but realise there’s a whole world of ocean out there to be explored. I lose myself in a daydream of owning one of the small houses we pass, with a curving wooden door and shutters the colour of the sky. Or perhaps a modern apartment, white-painted, windows open day and night to catch the murmur of the ocean.
Daydreaming distracts me from looking at Myles, his strong hands on the wheel, his muscular forearms with their dusting of dark hair. Stops me getting too caught up in the intimacy of being in a car with him. We’ve been in a car together before, but there’s always been a driver. This is different. I’m sitting up front with him, able to watch his profile as he navigates the roundabouts and long curves. It’s as though the lines are blurring, as though we’re a couple on holiday together rather than a boss and his assistant. I firmly redraw the line in my mind. Using a sharp black pen. Scoring it several times. I need to not forget who I am. Who we are.
And that he has a girlfriend. And I have a broken heart.
But it’s difficult when he keeps smiling at me, or when he points out places of interest as we pass them, his deep voice pitched to carry over the wind. I’m almost glad when, finally, he pulls off the road onto a short bumpy track lined on one side with trees, leading to a tall building which is stepped down in levels towards the beach. We pull into a parking space at the rear. The silence when Myles stops the car is broken only by the sound of the sea. I realise Myles is looking at me, one eyebrow raised.
Then I remember what I’m supposed to be doing. For God’s sake! I’m his assistant. I’m the one who made this booking, so I need to check us in. I pull myself together with an effort, straightening in my seat, rummaging in my bag for the documentation I need. I put on my ‘office Zara’ persona as though it’s armour, as though it can protect me from whatever the hell this is that’s happening.
“I’ll get the bags, if you can sort out everything else,” he says, opening his door and getting out.
“Of course.” I do the same. There’s a set of wooden doors in the rear of the building and I go to them, on legs that don’t shake too much. I turn the handle and push one open, stepping over the sill.
And I’m in wonderland once more.
I’m standing on a landing tiled in pale stone, a metal lantern hanging above. Stairs go down from it, broken by more landings, doors on either side. And, apart from where I’m standing, the stairway is entirely open to the sky. And the sea. Palm trees rustle next to a blue kidney-shaped pool in the garden area below, but beyond it is the ocean, wide and blue.
La Coeur sits on a rocky promontory above a natural spring, with the beach either side. It’s impossible to be any closer to the ocean without being in it. Myles had told me this already, but being here and seeing it is quite different. It’s like being on a ship.
I start down the stairs, following the painted wooden signs to the reception area. A young woman with dark hair sits behind a desk, surf art and posters adorning the wood-panelled walls. When she sees me, she smiles. “Bonjour.”
People tend to speak Arabic, Berber or French in Morocco. I discovered this when I researched the trip, and learned a few phrases which I hope will help me. But when I respond in faltering French, the young woman immediately switches to flawless English.
“Of course.” She stands up and gets two keys from the shelves behind her. “Miss Woodman and Mr Brandon. It will be nice to see Mr Brandon again.”
I smile half-heartedly. She’s very pretty. I wonder how often Myles has stayed here. And then I pull myself together. This is a work trip, it’s none of my business and I need to stop being such a sap. “Thank you,” I say, signing the paperwork she gives me and collecting the keys.
When I go outside Myles is already there, waiting with our bags. “All good?” The way the sun is hitting the lean planes of his face distracts me for a moment. He’s wearing sunglasses, his dark hair pushed back from his brow, and he looks so ridiculously handsome my chest hurts.
“All fine.” I hand him his key, full business-Zara mode. “Your room is on the top floor. Mine is below.”
Oh God. He doesn’t need to know where my room is. What must he be thinking? Why the hell would I say that?
But he just smiles. “You know that’s one of the best surf breaks in Morocco out there?” He points out to sea. I try not to look at the muscles in his arm. “That’s why I always stay here. One of the reasons, anyway.”
“It’s a lovely place,” I say. I’m not lying. The walls of the building are whitewashed, bright in the sunshine and the rooms are set back one above the other, creating the stepped effect I’d noticed when we pulled up. Each room has balconies facing the ocean. It’s not a large hotel; there are only fourteen rooms in the building. I say rooms, but they’re actually more like apartments, each with their own kitchen, living room and bathroom.
“Right, well, I might go and freshen up.” Myles picks up his bags.
“Oh! Of course.” I realise I’ve been lost in the view, staring out to sea. “Do you need me to organise anything for you? I’ve made sure the rooms are already stocked with food and drink, and you have a dinner reservation upstairs at 7pm though I can cancel that if you don’t want it. And there’s?—”
“Zara.”
I realise I’m babbling. “Yes?”
“Go and relax. I’m sure everything has been perfectly organised.”
I nod. Why is he making me feel so flustered? I preferred it when he was grumpy.
“Oh, and that dinner reservation? Is it just for me?”
“Yes,” I say. “I mean, it was for you and Scott, but when he couldn’t come I changed it.”
