The Last Resort (8 page)

“Where am I?”

“This is the Hibiscus Hideaway, and you’re in the sitting room because someone had to take care of you. You fainted—do you remember?”

“I think so,” I said, vaguely annoyed. Why had Sharon just left me here with a stranger? Then I scolded myself. After all, she could have refused to even get on the plane with me. At least she was here.

“I’m Peter. I manage the Hideaway. What’s your name?”

I sniffed, thinking how awful I must look—rumpled and tear-stained and generally miserable. “I’m Ava.”

“What a beautiful name. Nice to meet you.”

I didn’t really believe that it was
actually
nice to meet me, but at least he was trying to make me feel better. So he was gorgeous
and
polite.

“So you’re here with Sharon?” he asked eventually.

“Mm,” I said again.

“That’s nice. They’re in the pool, if you want to go outside and see her.”

“They?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, looking bashful. Such a Boy Scout. “She’s met up with a few friends, I think.” Then he handed me a plate that had something that smelled like cheese and ham. “Do you want a bite to eat? I’ve just made myself a sandwich, but you’re welcome to it.”

“Thanks,” I said, humbly taking the plate from him. My stomach had been rolled into a ball of the most appalling anxiety for so long—it must have been weeks since I’d had such an appetite. I munched, pathetically grateful, and started to feel hundreds of times better.

“Ketchup?” asked Peter, hopefully. “Mayonnaise? Perhaps a Coke? Some homemade lemonade?”

My stomach lurched. When last had I eaten mayonnaise? Jack didn’t allow any in the house. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh, no, I insist, it’s no trouble at all,” he said, not having any of it. “I’ll get you that Coke. Ice? Lemon?”

He scurried off. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of his bum: it was worth the effort. Was this what all the boys in South Africa were like?

It doesn’t matter,
said a fierce, wounded voice in my mind.
He’s
not the one you want. And you know it
.

Luckily, Peter was back quickly, clutching a Coke and another sandwich. “I’m sorry about the lights being off,” he said, as he chewed thoughtfully on his supper. “We always have a blackout between ten and one a.m.”

I laughed. Then I realised he was serious. “What? Every night?” I asked, incredulous.

“Oh no,” he said, laughing, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Just every second night. And we have a generator for the fridge, and a gas stove, so we’re OK.”

“Come on,” he said, while I was still reeling in shock (what about the hospitals? what if they forget to put the power back on? what the hell was I doing in the Third World?), “everyone’s in the pool already.”

And so they were. They were also, apparently, all very, very, very drunk. I couldn’t have been out for that long, surely? “AVAAAA,” Sharon roared, “YOU’RE AWAAAAAKE!”

The pool was tiny—more like a little dunking spot than a place to do some lengths. Nevertheless, about fifteen full-grown men were jammed into it, along with Sharon, in her best gold bikini. They were all looking intently at me, probably trying to size up if I was as much fun as my friend. Sadly not.

She was gesturing madly at me to come closer as she squeaked her way through the wet bodies toward me, holding a bottle of lager over her head. Gingerly, I approached. “Fuckin’ brill’yant, Aves,” she slurred when she got to me. “Fuckin’ beer’s 50p a bottle. Fuckin’ brill’yant,” she repeated, slapping me on the back in congratulations.

“Erm, thanks,” I said. She was too drunk to care whether I was feeling better or not. Which was fine with me; I didn’t feel like talking about it.

“No, no, no, no, no, none of that. No. Thank
you
,” she insisted.

“OK,” I said. A burly, rugby-player type with a broken-looking nose was coming up behind her, gesturing to me to be quiet; it appeared that he was going to try to bite her on the arse, or something along those lines. I thought it best to turn away, lest I be blamed for the carnage that was about to ensue.

When I turned, I came face-to-chest with an enormous, sweating man, who was apparently wearing a sarong. And who looked vaguely familiar. Peter was standing beside him.

“Ava, I’d like you to meet Randy,” he said. “Randy, Ava.”

“Hi,” I said, trying to smile, but starting to feel a little overwhelmed. There were a lot of people here. I was struck by how badly I wanted to be alone.

“Hi,” said Randy, gravely. “Your eyes are like ladybugs.” He was American.

“You’ll have to be patient with him,” said Peter, “we’ve only just found out that he ate all of Declan’s magic mushrooms earlier.”

“Fucker,” shouted a skinny, dark-haired young sprite who was nursing two beers at the bar.

“Declan’s from Belfast,” said Peter apologetically. “Randy, didn’t you have something to say to Ava?”

“The ocean,” said Randy, “the
seashells
,” and with that, he flung off his sarong and hurled his large, nude, hairy self into the pool. The fifteen rugby players, plus Sharon, exploded out of the water, screaming.

Peter sighed as he scooped up the sarong and folded it into a neat square. “Well, he wanted to say sorry for knocking you over at the gate. He was supposed to be on flashlight duty to let the new guests in. I think he’d already eaten the mushrooms by then. Drink?”

“OK,” I said weakly.

He led me off to the circular Hawaiian-themed bar that formed the centrepiece of the garden. Declan, the angry Ulsterman, nodded a hello and proceeded to insist on buying us several drinks. He tried valiantly to argue with Peter about it, seeming put out when Peter acquiesced immediately and politely.

Once I was installed on a barstool, Peter made his apologies and moved over to the pool to pull Randy out. It appeared that he’d got stuck in it, somehow.

“THE SHELLS!” he was screaming.

The Hideaway seemed to be a pretty place. The garden, which was large and covered with lush, soft grass, was dotted with lanterns, tiki-torches, and people snogging each other, and the deep dark of the blacked-out night made the stars seem incredibly bright. Someone was playing bongos in a corner, while his mates stood in a circle, passing a little glass pipe to one another. We were definitely in an exotic-beach-holiday zone.

The bar was at that pleasing, golden point of being full enough to be convivial, but not so full that the person next to you can grope you anonymously. An agreeable mix of surfer types, hippies, preppy gap-yearers and Silicon Valley-employed adventurers stood around, chugging cheap South African lager—the picture of happy international social relations, which everyone doubtless hoped would soon turn into happy international
sexual
relations.

They reminded me of Mia’s friends from uni—the adventurous ones, the ones who didn’t care what anyone thought of them, who were happy to drop out for three years to travel Guatemala solo, selling weed to get by.

Or of Jack’s friends. Who talked about horses and Verbier and how they all went to Morocco that year with the Gettys, and wasn’t it funny when Verity and Jemima poured all that champagne into the Jacuzzi after St-John knocked over the coke box? His friends who seemed to have a code of their own.

“You’re alright,” said Declan, breaking into my thoughts. “Might never happen,” he added, and handed me another beer.

“EEEEEE!” screamed a voice. It was Sharon, now next to me, in a towel. Declan was sizing her up with interest, but she didn’t notice. “Isn’t it GREAT here? Aren’t the people LOVELY? Isn’t the beer CHEAP?”

“I’m feeling really tired,” I said, trying to shake the sharp ring from my ears. “Where’s the room?”

“Oh,” she said blithely, “I thought we could take a bunk in the dormitory. Meet more people that way!”

My heart sank. “The dormitory?”

“Oh, keep your hair on, I’m only pulling your leg,” she shrieked, and collapsed into helpless laughter. Then she noticed I was in possession of two beers. “Property is theft,” she said, and chugged the full one in one go.

The room was a small chalet, hidden at the very back of the vast garden, behind a thicket of what I later learnt were milk-wood trees. They had a sweet banana scent that permeated our little room. Our luggage was already neatly stacked between the twin beds. Citronella-scented candles burned on the centre table, with more headily-fragranced jasmine arranged between them. Peter was certainly in the running for host of the year.

While Sharon took the longest pee in human history, I lay back on the cool cotton-wrapped bed and looked up at the reed ceiling. Crickets hummed outside, but the noise of the bar was mostly absorbed by the trees.

It was nice to be somewhere quiet. Unfortunately, I couldn’t enjoy it. What was he doing? I made a calculation in my head. It was about 11 p.m. here. Which was—what? 9 p.m. at home? Or 1 a.m.? Either way he must have noticed I wasn’t there. A knife twisted in my chest—maybe he hadn’t noticed at all.

Don’t be ridiculous
, I told myself,
of course he has.

Wouldn’t he have rung if he had?
said a little voice, dusty with misuse. I think it was the voice of reason.

The sound of the party receded as exhaustion took over my senses. I climbed under the covers and slept a little, without dreaming.

Of course, during every trip abroad there comes a time when you must phone your mother to let her know you’re alright. I prayed Mia wasn’t at home. If she answered the phone, I was done for.
Please let Mum pick up,
I willed the universe,
please let her pick up . . . I promise if she picks up I’ll never swear again or wish anyone ill and I’ll stop reading that gossip blog . . .

The phone rang with no answer. I glanced at my mobile. Still no word from my husband.

Sharon was languishing next to me in the little Skype booth that was installed in the common room of the Hideaway. I’d forced her out of bed at 7, after being woken by the grey dawn at 5 and lying in bed with my stomach painfully churning with anxiety. I’d fully expected to have at least a text from him by now. What was going on?

“Why are you
doing
this to me?” Sharon whined, fanning herself dramatically with her Lonely Planet Guide. “Can’t we ring her after breakfast?”

“Shush,” I muttered, glancing at my mobile again. The last chance I had to keep my sanity was to find out whether Jack had rung my mother. He’d never met her (I know that’s awful), but he knew her number because it was the only one on my next-of-kin notice. I was clutching at straws, and no mistake.

I owed my mother an apology anyway—and I clung to that motive in an attempt to absolve myself. No reply. I redialled, valiantly hanging on to my last shred of hope.

“If you want to know why he hasn’t rung you, why don’t you ring
him
?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed.

“And if you’re so keen to hear from him, why did you run off in the first place?”

“Ssh!” I could hear her rolling her eyes, but now was not the time to be entertaining her outlandish notions. It was time to be practical.

I heard the click of a receiver being lifted. My heart leapt. “Hello?” said a voice—it was Mia’s.

“Hi,” I whispered, as I screwed my eyes closed and prepared for impact. “It’s—”

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU HAVE PUT HER THROUGH?”

“I—”

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG SHE CRIED FOR AFTER YOU TEXTED HER YOU’D GOT
MARRIED
?”

“Mia—”

“Six days. SIX FUCKING DAYS! FOR YOU!”

“Please—”

“You selfish bitch. YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE COW! AFTER ALL SHE’S DONE FOR US!”

I hung my head in shame. It was true. I’d texted Mum our happy announcement—and I know that sounds so horrible. To be fair, at the time I didn’t want Mia to know, not after the whole mess with her divorce. I wanted to give her some time, so texting seemed like a kinder alternative. That way, Mum could easily keep it to herself if need be.

But I couldn’t pretend that was the only reason: I had to admit, I didn’t want to answer any uncomfortable questions, like “what the hell are you doing” and “have you thought this through”. So when Mum rang me about three seconds after I texted her, I’d guiltily put the phone on silent and forced myself not to answer it.

I know. That sounds really bad, doesn’t it?

“Mia,” I attempted, “can’t we just—”

“DON’T YOU TRY TO MANIPULATE ME, AVA. DON’T YOU EVEN TRY IT!”

“I’m not. Honestly. I need to speak to Mum, Mia.
Please
.”

She was breathing heavily on the other end of the line, as if we’d just had a fistfight and she was sizing up the next round. I was pathetically grateful that I wasn’t there in person. If I was, I’d have been running the very real risk of being maimed.

There was a silence. Then I heard her furious footsteps as she stalked off to find Mum.