Summer Loving (5 page)

Franklin smiles to himself, flattered at the attention his woman is getting from everyone. Estelle is still unnecessarily fascinated with my dress and pinches the material. Does she think before she speaks?

‘It really is a lovely dress, Saskia! I used to have one just like that in yellow.’

Estelle is dressed in the sort of clothes that a normal person would go out for dinner in. She’s wearing beautiful, flower-
patterned; asymmetric-shoulder dress which I think is made of silk, accompanied by a shitload of gold jewellery. I, however, am just wearing a white cotton summery thing with thin straps over the shoulders.

‘No,’ she continues, ‘
it wasn’t yellow; it was more a sort of light orange. Or a very rich yellow. Oxlip, perhaps.’ Her jewellery rattles as she waves her hands around. ‘You’re probably laughing at me – oxlip is so nineties.’

Tybalt snaps at her. ‘Not now, my sweet.’

Ooh. Estelle has obviously just broken one of the rules, whichever one it was. ‘Don’t talk about girl things for more than five seconds’, perhaps. ‘Don’t mention the colour yellow at breakfast.’

Tybalt has a last leer at me, then turns to Franklin and slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Ha
ve I got news for you, old chap!’

A waiter appears. Tybalt turns to him impatiently. ‘One cafetière of your strongest coffee and…’ he turns to Estelle ‘…what’s that rubbish you drink?’

‘Masala Chai.’

‘Yes, and a glass of that or whatever as well.’

The waiter nods and escapes. I always wonder what hotel staff think when they serve people like us in hotels like this. Do they talk about us? I’m sure they do. What do they say? I’m sure it can’t be good.

‘Now listen here. You know the course here? Pretty good. One of the best that’s attached to a hotel. No argument with that. But how d’you fancy a couple of days at the San Lorenzo!’

I’ve no idea what the San Lorenzo is, but for the first time this morning, Franklin’s expression lightens.

‘San Lorenzo? This time of year? You’ve got to be kidding, my man. I suspect they’ll be fully booked. You can never get in there at short notice. You know what it’s like.’

Tybalt nods his head smugly, as if he’s withholding a big secret.

‘That’s why we were a little late for breakfast. When we were here last year, I slipped one of the chaps over there a few quid to let me know if there were any cancellations. He gave me a bell this morning. They’ve just had a couple of poor sods drop out with food poisoning, ha
ha. They’d booked two sessions; one this afternoon and another tomorrow morning. We can take their places. What d’you think? Game on? They’ve got a couple of suites free at the hotel, so we can have a few bevvies in the evening. Maybe more than a few!’

Franklin can sense my bafflement and explains, ‘The San Lorenzo. One of the best courses in Europe; probably in the world. Eighteen hole, par 72.’

Whatever that means.

‘It’s owned by some bloody big hotel nearby,’ adds Tybalt, ‘You have to stay there if you want to get on the course without beating around the houses, but sometimes you can get lucky. Nothing like getting lucky, eh, Saskia?’

I’m going to throw up, I swear I am.

Franklin looks at me brightly and smiles. He’s forgotten it’s my birthday tomorrow. I won’t say anything. It doesn’t really matter. He forgot last year, too. Maybe he thinks that people like me don’t have them.

‘Just one and a half days, my beauty,’ says Franklin, ‘not a problem, is it?’

‘Of course not!’ beams Estelle. ‘It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other! We can have a wonderful girly one and a half days!’

‘I was talking to Saskia,’ snaps Franklin.

‘Yes,’ adds Tybalt, ‘Mind your manners, woman.’

My heart sinks. I don’t know what Estelle gets up to on holidays like this, but I don’t really fancy hanging around with her, even for a day and a half. Talking to her makes me feel tired.

The waiter places Tybalt’s coffee and Estelle’s chai on the table and leaves. Neither of them say thank you nor even acknowledge that he’s there. He smiles to himself as he walks away. He thinks we’re all tools.

‘Anyway,’ says Franklin, ‘even if it was a problem, you wouldn’t say anything, would you Saskia.’

He turns to Tybalt and grins, ‘I’ve got her
far
too well trained!’

‘Women should be seen and not heard,’ adds Tybalt, seriously.

Jesus; what a dipstick.

‘There are plenty of things to do at t
his hotel while we men are away,’ says Franklin, ‘Plenty of activities. Perhaps you and Estelle can investigate some of them, so you don’t get too bored without us.’

I’m glad he’s thought of that. A day without men telling us what to do and we’d both be running around like headless chickens.

‘They’ve got big game fishing that they can organise for you, if you like that sort of thing,’ says Tybalt, ‘Estelle and I went out on one of their boats last year or the year before last. Do you remember, dear? I caught a marlin. Easily fifty pounds. They strap you into a chair so you don’t get pulled overboard by the bloody fish. Does that appeal, Saskia? Getting strapped into a chair?’

Yawn.

He sniggers to himself. ‘They’ve also got mountain biking and lots of walks and all that sort of thing. Even bird watching if you don’t feel like anything physical. Nothing like a bit of bird watching, eh, Franklin?’

‘Always been a hobby of mine,’ beams Franklin, ‘I can tell you that for nothing.’

When Franklin is in the company of men like him, his sense of humour regresses to that of a nine year old boy. I don’t know why.

‘Saskia will prefer to hang around the spa, I suspect,’ he says, ‘Swimming, steam and sauna. Am I right, Saskia?’

‘Swimming, eh?’ says Tybalt, ‘She prefers activities that involve lying down, then!’

Franklin roars with laughter at this superb example of unfunniness. He turns and looks out of the window. The newbie surfers are now splashing around in the surf, frantically trying to hold onto their pop-out boards, which, predictably, have a life of their own. If they weren’t attached to their users with leashes and ankle straps, they’d be heading for Africa by now. The instructor stands in the surf and watches, her hands on her hips and her long blonde hair blowing in all directions.

*

Kirstan never taught surfing, but he stood in that same way, looking out to sea, checking out the waves, deciding if it was worth going in or not. He used to get up at the crack of dawn, while I was still asleep, and spend an hour or so ‘spanking the waves’ as he called it, before going to work in the surf shop.

After I’d finished work at the Tate, I’d drive down to the beach in Lucille’s clapped-out Fiesta and watch him out at sea. At first, I found it rather anxiety-creating. He went out much further than the other surfers and sometimes seemed to disappear. Then, that orange board would appear again, with him crouching over it, hitting the waves like he’d been doing it all his life.

I was surprised to find that he didn’t consider surfing a sport. He looked upon it as an art form; something creative, exciting and life-changing. He wanted me to learn. He said that it didn’t matter that I couldn’t swim. As long as he was out there with me, nothing would happen to me. If I fell off, I could just hang on to the board until he got to me. He guaranteed I wouldn’t float off to Ireland. But I just didn’t have the confidence in the water and didn’t like the sensation of going under. I just liked watching him. He was right, though; it was sensual and artistic and just couldn’t be compared to anything else.

Despite his elegance in the sea, though, on land he was quite hilariously clumsy. Once, the other guy in the shop had been meticulously arranging a display of new surfboards. I think there must have been about ten of them, all different colours, but arranged in the order of the spectrum. It looked nice and he was really pleased with it. Within two seconds of entering the shop, Kirstan had fallen against the one on the end and the whole load had gone down like dominos. I reckon the crash could be heard a mile away. ‘Shit!’ said Kirstan, laughing, ‘What happened there?’

That sort of thing happened just
all
of the time. In the sea, though, as I said, it was totally different.

One weekend, he spotted an inexperienced surfer with his arm in the air, so distant that I could barely make him out. That arm in the air signalled they were in trouble and needed help. Kirstan ran into the sea with his board and used a rip tide to zoom him out to where the other surfer was struggling.

Ten stressful minutes later, they were both on the shore, laughing. It was a teenager, probably about fifteen, who’d been caught by another rip and was being dragged out to sea by it. He’d been trying to paddle his way back and had become exhausted. Kirstan had saved his life.

The boy had thanked Kirstan again and again and again, but Kirstan was having none of it. ‘Forget it,’ he’d said, ‘It’s happened to me before now and it’ll probably happen again. It’s nothing. Just think of it as something you can talk about in the pub. But don’t go out on your own again. Not for another five years. Oh – and get a brightly coloured wetsuit and board when you can afford it. I could hardly fuckin’ see you, you great twat.’

Again, I feel the pain of thinking about him and stick him in one those rooms in my brain that I never visit.

Franklin stops watching the surf school and turns to me. ‘Why don’t you have a go at surfing, Saskia? It says in the hotel literature that the instructors here are very good. Approved or accredited by something or other, it said. I don’t think you need to be a rocket scientist to do it.’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t like learning things in big groups like that. I don’t want to talk to other people.’

‘Oh, come on, Saskia,’ says Tybalt, ‘Think of us! I’m sure Franklin and I would love to see you in a tight-fitting rubber wetsuit!’

More laughs all round.

‘It’s neoprene. They don’t use rubber ones anymore.’ I’m becoming humourless, I see.

‘Shame! Well, whatever it’s made of. It’ll give you something to do with your time. Perhaps Estelle could come with you! When we come back, I think I might take a lesson myself. Have you seen that blonde instructor? A goodly wench indeed! I heard her talking to a couple of people in the foyer. She’s Australian or New Zealander or something. One of those things, anyway. A real looker, as we used to say when I was a lad. Comely and statuesque. Look - see those little chalets down there? With all the differently coloured doors? That’s where the surfing instructors live, I believe. I might pop down and pay her a visit! See if I can get a ride!’

Tybalt laughs. His gut wobbles. Tasty.

Estelle makes a face, ‘You won’t get me on one of those things. Looks too dangerous and I hate going in the sea. Besides, the hotel’s got thousands of safe girl things that we can do together. Have you seen the shops here?’

Tybalt laughs at her, not with her. Tybalt laughs a lot. ‘The thing is, Saskia, you don’t have to do it in a big group, if that’s what’s bothering you. It said that they do one-on-one tuition. Nothing like a bit of one-on-one, eh, Saskia?’

Humour shouldn’t have to be explained, but he is intentionally using the phrase ‘one-on-one’ instead of ‘one-to-one’. This is meant to be both funny
and
loaded with innuendo. It fails miserably on both counts. I look out of the window and yawn. ‘Well, I’ll think about it. I don’t know what I’m going to do, really. I might use the gym.’

I
really
don’t want to do anything connected with surfing. I wish Tybalt would shut up. And I wish Estelle would shut up, too. I wish they’d all shut up and go away.

‘Ooh, yes,’ says Estelle, ‘I definitely want to use the gym. Have you seen it? Looks really high-tech.’

‘Or I might use one of the swimming pools…’

‘I’ll join you. What time were you thinking of going?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll see what’s happening.’ I can see that Estelle will be following me around like a puppy. I look at Franklin. He still hasn’t remembered about my birthday. ‘What time will you both be going to this San Lorenzo place?’ I ask.

‘Well,’ says Tybalt, ‘I thought we’d leave about ten or ten-thirty. It’ll take about two hours, maybe less, to drive there and we can have a spot of lunch when we arrive. I’ve heard the club does a miraculous
Ameijoas
na
Cataplana
.’

I look straight at Franklin. ‘And you’ll be back tomorrow evening? Wednesday evening? When? What time?’

‘Don’t pressure me, my dear. More like mid-afternoon, I would think. Maybe late afternoon. We may be hungry again by that time. No need for you to book one of the restaurants, though. We’ll just see what we fancy get when we’re back. Don’t worry yourself about it.’

‘Well, I hope you have a good time. Both of you.’ Yup. He’s forgotten that tomorrow is my birthday. Oh well.
C’est
la
vie
. I can’t say I’m that bothered, really. With the amount of gifts that he gives me, it’s like it’s my birthday every few weeks.

Franklin smiles. ‘A good time? How can you
not
have a good time when you’re playing golf?’