I take out my earbuds, lifting my sunglasses to get a better look at the guy standing at the lounger beside me, just in case I mistakenly give stalker boy the green light to park himself beside me and tell me that he watched me cross my legs while I sneezed in the buffet line. Thankfully it isn’t him. This man is much younger, maybe late twenties, dark blond hair, chiselled jawline and looks like he works out. Good for him. Maybe Alex Steward is his fitness coach. I instinctively suck my stomach in. It’s a learned behaviour. Thanks, Mum.
‘Yeah,’ I tell him. ‘It’s free.’
He puts down his towel and his book, kicking off his flip-flops. I close my eyes and resume my futile quest for a tan. I go back to Ludovico when I hear a faint, ‘Excuse me.’
Earbuds out again, I look in his direction. There’s a woman in an animal-print bikini walking towards us. I swear, if he asks me to move so his girlfriend can sit beside him, I’ll refuse loudly and stubbornly remain here until an hour before my flight home. I am not giving up this seat. Thankfully she keeps on walking.
‘I’m going to the bar, can I get you anything?’
‘Me?’
He nods. ‘Do you want anything?’
‘Um, a lemon daiquiri would be great, thank you,’ I reply, somewhat bamboozled. My first thought is that he must work here and is having an afternoon off, but I remember that the staff have their own pool. The only plausible explanation is that his mother has obviously brought him up to respect his elders.
He leaves and I take a peek at the book he’s reading.The Catcher in the Rye. I haven’t read that since secondary school, and I have no intention of ever reading it again. It’s completely overrated.
He brings the drinks back and I thank him again. He settles back into his chair with his Gully Wash, something else I find to be overrated. I scold myself for being a pretentious bore. No one cares, Sophie, it’s just a drink.
‘I’m Jude,’ he says. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Sophie,’ I reply. ‘I’d shake your hand, but I’ve just applied sun cream.’
He chuckles. ‘It’s fine. Having a good holiday?’
‘I am, thanks.’ This daiquiri is ninety per cent crushed ice. It’s sublime. I almost shout to the bar staff to ‘keep ’em coming’. ‘How about you?’
‘It’s been good. I’m here with some friends.’ He looks in the direction of a group of beautiful people, sitting at the side of the pool. I think two of them are the giggly couple from the lift. ‘They’re all paired up, so I’ve been fifth wheeling it.’
I snigger. ‘Try being here alone. It’s like being the new kid all over again.’
He looks surprised. ‘You’re alone? You don’t seem the type.’
What is it with men presupposing my likes or my persona?
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘God, I don’t want to sound offensive, but you know. The stereotypes of the over-sixty, retired, table for one, friendless—’
‘What makes you think that isn’t me?’
‘As I said. You don’t seem the type.’
I smile and his face relaxes. ‘I won’t lie,’ I admit. ‘I thought the same, but more the friendless, middle-aged loner who’s brought photos of cats. I couldn’t have been more wrong.’
As he speaks, I notice that he’s yet another person with perfect bright, white teeth, like a porcelain bathroom sink. I’m glad I have my sunglasses on. I mean, it’s not unattractive by any means, it just makes me wonder whether I should spend a few grand to glow in the dark.
‘How’s the book?’ I ask. ‘Enjoying it?’
‘I really like it,’ he gushes. ‘It was on one of those “Fifty books you should read before you die” lists. I can see why it’s so popular.’
‘Yeah, it’s certainly popular,’ I agree, thinking that I’ve never read a more annoying, unrelatable character. But I’ve never been a teenage boy. Or a raging anti-hero arsehole. Hopefully.
We chat for an hour or so. He’s a nice guy. He has dimples. Maths teacher, twenty-nine (nailed it), from Wales but lives in Manchester.
‘Maths was never my strong suit,’ I tell him. ‘And as an adult, I’ve never been asked to calculate the angle of a triangle or the volume of a cuboid, I don’t feel like I’m missing out too much.’
He laughs. ‘It’s not for everyone.’
