The Time of Our Lives (30 page)

We’ve been waiting for the doctor to come and release me for four hours. I’ve signed the relevant paperwork, had the relevant X-rays and sat next to the relevant crack addicts,
alcoholics and ne’er do wells, so by rights I should have been out of here, back by the pool and topping up the hotchpotch I call my tan ages ago.

Only they’ve got a rush on. And, despite the fact that I’m paying (or, rather, my travel insurance is paying, after I spent an hour on the phone to a helpline that was about as
helpful as an AA meeting in an off-license), nobody seems inclined to discharge me.

‘I tried to follow you,’ Meredith tells me. My friends, God bless them, have refused to leave my side. ‘It’s bloody hard running these days though.’

‘Meredith, your running days should be over until you’ve given birth,’ I tell her.

‘You said exercise was a
good
thing when you’re pregnant,’ she protests.

‘I was talking about swimming or yoga. Not a frantic sprint through more obstacles than a Royal Marines assault course.’

‘Well done for trying, anyway,’ Nicola says, rubbing my good arm. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t get to that boy. Although perhaps it was for the best – you
don’t know how he’d have reacted. Either way, it sounds like you were close to getting him.’

I sigh, resigning myself to one crucial matter. ‘He wouldn’t have had it with him anyway, so I have no idea what I’d have done if I’d caught him. But still . . .’ I
hesitate. ‘Did you say Harry rejoined his group when I ran off?’

Nicola nods. ‘I think so. That guide of theirs was quite insistent that they all head for the tour bus without delay. My attention was on you so I can’t say I was concentrating on
them, but he did seem to put up a bit of a fight. He clearly wasn’t happy to have to leave.’

I try to hide my disappointment.

‘He’d have helped if he could,’ Meredith adds. ‘He was obviously left with no choice.’

‘It was nothing to do with him, anyway,’ I point out. ‘It’s one thing me playing at being a vigilante – I couldn’t expect anyone else to.’

I notice that Nicola is engrossed in her phone.

‘Is something the matter?’ I ask.

She bites her lip. ‘I hate to add to your woes, Imogen, but someone’s hacked your Facebook account.’

‘No!’

She nods. ‘It says here that you shared an article about orgasms on something called “supersexpert.com”.’

‘Oh God, that
was
me . . . but it was an accident,’ I groan.

Meredith peers over Nicola’s shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much, Imogen. You’ve got a record number of Likes.’

It is 6 p.m. by the time we get back to the hotel. The double doors glide open into the welcome, air-conditioned chill.

As I cross the lobby, the idea that I should fill in Harry on what happened after he left bubbles up in me. It was he who’d suggested we talk to the boy, after all.

As the others head to the bar, I make a detour to the sun deck, register his absence, then stop off at the business centre and find that he isn’t there either.

I push thoughts of him out of my mind and head to the room instead, where I attempt to suppress an overwhelming desire to curl up in bed. Having dragged my friends to hospital, and thereby
denied them another day of sightseeing, I think the least I owe them is dinner.

I peel off my clothes and quickly shove them in a laundry bag (which makes it sound rather grander than the reality: a Tesco carrier bag filled with unwashed pants), noting that it was a good
thing I didn’t see Harry after all. After an intensive sprint in 30-degree heat, I’m not exactly fragrant, not unless the term can be expanded to incorporate the rotting contents of a
wheelie bin.

I attempt to shower. I say
attempt
because it quickly becomes evident that having an arm in plaster hampers even the most pedestrian of tasks. The jets of water seem magnetically
attracted to my cast, despite all my efforts to undertake my ablutions with my arm raised in the air.

Then I have an idea. Dripping wet and with limb aloft, I tiptoe out of the shower and root around one-handed in my suitcase for the laundry bag I had only minutes ago. I pull it out and rip the
plastic bag down one side, holding it in my teeth and feeling a little bit like in films when someone tears up their shirt to wrap around a gunshot wound.

I cover my plaster with the bag and tie it on both sides until it’s near enough watertight, feeling fairly smug about my handiwork. I step back into the shower and carefully start to wash
the day out of my hair.

I almost start to relax as water spills onto my forehead and I lose myself in its warmth. I’m not thinking about my necklace, or my tattered professional reputation or the implications of
what I did last night. I’m thinking of nothing. Well,
almost
nothing. Because, slowly, gradually, before I even recognise the fact, flashbacks from last night begin to infiltrate my
brain again.

I try to force them away, but they coax me, too vivid and pleasurable to resist. So I convince myself that just
thinking
about last night does no harm. As Meredith said, it’s just
normal, natural, what human beings were designed for.

Warmth sweeps up my body as I look at the skin on my stomach and remember what it felt like with Harry’s lips on it. I take a long inward breath and try to pull myself together but, as I
massage shampoo into my hair, I’m quickly back in the pleasure zone, feeling relaxed, sensual.

And distinctly frisky if the truth be told.

Which is obviously too good to last. I’m midway through reliving the bit where Harry first lifted off his shirt, when a piercing screech comparable to the onset of a sonic boom rips
through the room and I nearly slip over in shock.

It’s a fire alarm. Probably a drill . . .

I consider this for a moment, certain that it’ll go off soon, like the ones that always go off in work: every staff member on the payroll trudges outside only to find out that all
that’s caused it is the office pisshead returning from a long lunch and falling through a fire door.

I calmly start to wash off the shampoo, willing the noise to go off. Because I’m
not
going outside like this. Not a chance. Besides, there’s no way a building this
sophisticated would have a fire. Surely—

But the longer I massage suds out of my hair, the more time I have for reflection. The vivid recollection of the article I scanned on the Internet this morning assails me: I imagine all those
poor people tapping away at their keyboards, convinced the wailing sirens were a drill, while the floors below smouldered like the seventh circle of hell.

Maybe that’s happening right now! Anything could be going on out there as I stand here attempting to massage high-end shampoo out of my roots with a single hand. My anxiety levels mount
further.

‘Oh, come
on
– just go off!’ I plead to no one in particular as I set about working out the position of the kitchen in this building. I’m not saying I’d
rival anyone on
CSI
, but I quickly deduce that it’s perfectly feasible that, only minutes ago, an inexperienced chef’s Gambas Pil Pil ignited on the bottom of a frying pan and
the resulting flames are now sweeping through the entire building.

The alarm continues. ‘PLEASE STOP! PLEASE—’

It doesn’t stop.

I am engulfed by a feeling that I
have
to get out of here, or else I will be in hideous, mortal danger.

I turn off the shower and grab a towel, scanning the room for the bathrobe. It’s nowhere. I head to my pile of washing and start rifling through it – as I hear feet running outside
the room. God Almighty, I’m facing imminent death but all I can do is flick through my dirty knickers! I need to get out of here!

I wrap the towel around my dripping body and race out of the door.

Nobody’s there – the only thing I’m greeted by is the now-deafening din of the alarm. I belt towards the stairs, squinting through the suds working their way into my retinas,
unconcerned that the only thing covering my modesty is a bath towel. Who cares if my bum’s on show when my life is at stake?

Half blinded by the shampoo, I race out of the hotel panting like an asthmatic porn star as I slip into a large crowd of people . . . at the exact moment as the alarm rings off.

I glance around. Nobody else is wearing only a bath towel, Tesco bag and enough shampoo to beautify an 18-hand racehorse. My eyes scan the vicinity for the girls, but they’re nowhere to be
seen – and neither, to my relief, is Harry.

‘Hello!’

I look up and see my Italian friend. Having run away from him twice already I don’t feel I ought to do it again.

‘Hello to you too,’ I reply, painfully conscious of my lack of attire. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about disappearing quickly, it’s just . . . is everything okay?’

He is looking me up and down, taking in my appearance, and clearly confirming that I am, as he suspected, quite unhinged.

‘Everything okay yes!’ he says.

‘Did you have anything nice planned today?’ I add politely.

He nods. ‘No problem!’ he replies, as he backs away, spins round, and rapidly disappears.

A hotel official comes out and tells us apologetically that it’s all simply a false alarm and we can return to our rooms. Nobody sprints up the stairs faster than I do – I cover
about five stairs per stride at one point – and relief overwhelms me as I go to push open our hotel room door.

It is a momentary sensation. The door is stuck fast. I’ve left the key card inside.

‘SHIT!’

‘Is everything all right?’

I recognise Harry’s voice before I spin round and look at him. ‘What are you doing on this floor?’ I ask in a panicked squeak.

‘I came to see how you’re doing after what happened in Las Ramblas. I’m sorry we got separated.’

‘Oh . . . that’s okay. Well, I didn’t manage to retrieve the necklace, sadly.’

Harry is staring at me, aghast. ‘What happened to your arm?’

I glance at my Tesco bag. ‘They were two for the price of one.’

He laughs. ‘Seriously, are you okay?’

‘I broke it.’ I shrug. ‘I spent the whole day –
we
spent the whole day – in hospital.’

‘You’re kidding? I’m so sorry.’ Harry looks at me, mortified.

‘I need to go and speak to Reception and get them to open the door,’ I mutter, suddenly needing to end this conversation. Despite the fact that Harry’s seen every inch of me
naked, I’ve never felt more exposed – both by the shortness of this bath towel and by the feelings stirring inside me just by being around him.

‘Stay here – I’ll go,’ he insists.

I’m about to protest when I realise that I’m not in a position to. The prospect of going downstairs isn’t one I relish.

Harry disappears down the stairs and returns a few minutes later with a woman in hotel uniform, who lets me into the room. When she’s gone, he looks at me. ‘Are you around
tonight?’ he asks, simply.

It sounds like a straightforward question. But it isn’t. Of course it isn’t. ‘Yes. Possibly. I don’t know.’

He hesitates. ‘O-kay. Well,
I
should be, at least before dinner. Maybe we could meet?’

I hesitate. ‘I’m not sure what time I’ll be around. I don’t know what our plans are,’ I say noncommittally.

He scans my face, clearly wondering how to play this given my lack of inclination to set a specific time. ‘Perhaps we’ll say we might just bump into each other in the bar downstairs,
then?’

I nod. He smiles.

‘Bye, then,’ I mumble.

‘Bye,’ he replies.

As I close the room door behind me, I wonder when my brain will stop hurting so much.

The second the door closes I begin to feel a bit ill. About the fact that I am thinking about – to bring this down to the unseemly, brass-tacks truth – sex. I am
literally tingling with desire. Which, in equal parts, makes me feel amazing and dreadful.

Back in the shower, I switch it onto its coldest setting and, by the time I’ve emerged, I’ve not only managed to shake the sexy feeling, but have made sure there is only one man on
my mind, and that’s Roberto.

I locate my soaked bath towel and attempt to dry my hair as I contemplate everything that’s happened here in Spain. With my job, yes, but most importantly, myself.

There have been many times over the last five years when I’ve thought about when the time would be right to ‘move on’, but it’s not something you can sit back and
dispassionately
define
. Instead it is, I strongly suspect, something that simply happens, a process over which you have little or no control.

I say ‘strongly suspect’ because although the physical feelings I’m having for Harry represent the first time I’ve experienced this about another man since Roberto,
they’re
not
making me feel like it’s time to get myself a boyfriend. They’re simply making me feel guilty. Disloyal. And unworthy of a love that I always vowed would last
for ever.

I sit at the desk in the room and take out a pen and paper.

The simple process of beginning to write makes me feel like I’ve made a connection, and I submit to the fantasy that he’s still here, in my life. In
real
life.