The Mini Break (3 page)

‘A little,’ I say. ‘To be honest, I’ve not been feeling very well. I’m not sure I’m up to it.’

‘Oh . . . that would be disappointing. Do you need me to take you to a doctor?’

The idea of James accompanying me to the doctor’s for him to give me a full once-over and declare me fully fit doesn’t bear thinking about. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.
That’s great news about the tournament. Thanks.’

Anisha looks at me shiftily as James hands over some information sheets and starts to tell her about the area. He’s clearly good at his job, avoiding pushy salesmanship and sticking to
what he thinks she’d be interested in. And I’m sure she
is
interested, despite the fact that, after only one drink, she announces she’s tired, will order room service for
dinner and is going to – nudge-nudge, wink-wink – ‘leave us to it’.

She backs away and James and I are by ourselves. The thought makes me redden.

‘So what do you do for a living, Sophie?’ he asks, and I proceed to tell him about my job as a copywriter for an advertising agency. Only, my nerves get the better of me and
I’m unable to prevent myself from wittering on and on about every nuance of my career from my first position, to the colour of the office kettle. Eventually, I run out of steam and make a
point of shifting the attention to him.

It turns out he hasn’t always worked in Spain; he moved here four months ago on a temporary contract after a messy break-up with a long-term girlfriend. He’s enjoyed the sun, but he
misses home – Chester – his friends, and his dog, who his mum is looking after while he’s here (‘She feeds him better than she ever did me,’ he grins).

He’s funny, warm and nice from what I can tell, although I’m aware that the random quirks one uses to make these judgements – he tips generously, has a phone full of photos of
his nieces and people go out of their way to say hi to him – are far from perfect.

As we while away the evening talking about everything and nothing, I can’t suppress a train of thought that’s running off the tracks in my head: if he wasn’t at work here
– a situation which basically rules out any romantic action – then
could
that be a possibility? If I’d met him in a club, or at a gym, or in a dozen other circumstances . .
. would we, in the words of the late, great Marvin Gaye,
get it on?

‘Sophie?’

‘Sorry . . .’ I shake my head and he laughs.

‘It’s gone midnight. I’m reluctant to say this because I’ve had a great night, but I think I’d better let you hit the sack. You’ve got a big day
tomorrow.’ I look at him blankly. ‘The Palermo Cup?’ he reminds me.

‘Ah, of course!’ I reply. ‘Can’t wait.’

I would have to admit to finding Anisha’s approach to the Palermo Cup slightly infuriating.

‘How hard can it be?’ she says breezily, pulling on her golf socks.

‘You’re not seriously going through with this? We’re not just going to lose. We’re going to lose by a suspiciously gargantuan number of points . . . strokes . . . or
whatever they’re called – God Almighty, I can’t even remember what they’re called!’

She shrugs. ‘We’ll just say we had an off day. Everyone does. Even the pros.’

‘Anisha, this won’t look like an “off day”, it’ll look like we’ve both had full-scale mental breakdowns. Which doesn’t feel far from the truth right
now.’

I dutifully get dressed and we make our way downstairs where James is waiting for us with two accreditation badges and a great big smile.

‘Feeling confident?’ he asks.

‘Well, I’d hate to tempt fate,’ I manage, as my stomach turns itself onto a boil wash.

He leads us to a marquee bustling with competitors and officials, as I feel queasier by the minute.

There are golfers everywhere, press and TV cameras, as well as glamorous women with clipboards and official-looking men giving instructions. The tent is so hot I feel like I’ve crawled
through a desert in a Goofy costume and every time a waiter passes offering complimentary chilled water, I seem to miss him.

Anisha yammers on, putting on a frighteningly convincing display of someone actually enjoying herself, while my head feels ready to detonate with stress.

Then James nudges me. ‘You’re on.’ He smiles. ‘Good luck, Sophie.’

I turn to face the official who wants to lead me to my fate. Then I turn back to James and have a flash of clarity that’s entirely inappropriate to the moment, but is there, regardless: I
fancy him. I seriously fancy him.

I go to turn around and follow the official when James’s voice echoes through my head. ‘Er . . . Sophie?’

‘Yes?’

‘I wondered . . .’ He looks at the ground, momentarily self-conscious. ‘Perhaps we could go for a drink afterwards. To celebrate or commiserate, whichever’s
appropriate.’

I manage to nod. ‘I’d . . . yes. Lovely.’

As I turn and go to walk onto the pitch or the green or whatever it is bloody called, I can only think of one thing:
HE’S GOING TO DISCOVER I’M A FAKE!

I spin back to look at him. He waves, almost in slow motion.

Which is the last thing I see before the world turns black and I hit the floor.

It becomes apparent when Anisha and I finally get to talk in the privacy of our room several hours after my fainting incident that she’s been under the impression it was
a brilliantly convincing diversionary tactic.

‘You mean you
really
fainted?’ she asks incredulously, applying mascara in the mirror.

‘Do you think I’d have gone to the trouble of getting THIS otherwise?’ I reply, sticking out my leg to display a five-inch bruise the colour of mouldy Ribena.

‘Wow. Well, whatever it was, it worked,’ she adds, which is true. As I was whisked off to the sick bay, she insisted she had to drop out of the competition and accompany me like a
dutiful friend, a role she’s been milking ever since, as if it wasn’t her bloody fault I was in this predicament in the first place.

‘James seemed very concerned about you,’ she smirks.

‘Perhaps you should’ve gone for that drink with him after all.’

‘I’d have loved to,’ I reply. ‘But he was right next to me when the medic insisted I had to get plenty of bed rest and not drink any alcohol for the rest of the day. So
that was that.’

‘Bummer.’

I picture James surrounded by golf groupies downstairs and can’t help but agree wholeheartedly.

We meet James in the foyer the following morning, ready for him to take us to the airport. Now I have officially recognised that I am attracted to him, I can barely bring
myself to look in his direction, as if doing so would advertise the fact to the world. He puts our bags in the boot and slams it shut, before Anisha pushes me into the front seat and sits in the
back, quieter than she has been the entire holiday.

The journey is both the longest and shortest trip of my life: as the miles between us and the airport disappear, I’m hyper aware of any opportunity with James disintegrating with them.

When we reach the terminal, he parks up to accompany us to Departures, despite my insistence we’d be fine on our own. As we go through the glass doors, Anisha disappears to find a trolley
and I’m left alone with him. I feel as though I’m at the end of a prom date – awkward and tongue-tied.

‘I—,’ we say in unison, then laugh.

‘You first,’ I offer.

‘No, you,’ he replies.

I’m hit by an impulsive urge to say something that I know will cause more trouble than it’s worth. But not saying it doesn’t feel like an option.

‘James, there’s something I need to tell you about Anisha and me. About our . . . golfing abilities.’ My face is crimson and I’m about to go on when a smile creeps to his
lips. ‘We’re not . . . the thing is . . .’

‘Sophie, you don’t need to say anything.’ I realise he has his hand on my arm and my knees feel wobbly. ‘Anisha told me last night. About the fact that your handicaps
aren’t quite as impressive as she’d said.’

Mortification overcomes me. ‘Oh, James – I’m sorry . . .’

He laughs. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. No harm’s been done, has it? And as long as Anisha sings our praises to any potential golf holidaymakers, then our
job’s done.’

I let out a long breath, only then realising how long I’d been holding it for.

‘Although I might ask you a favour, if that’s okay,’ he says.

‘Anything.’

He hesitates. ‘I’m back in the UK in four weeks. Would you like to get together for that drink, after all?’

A smile forces its way to my lips. ‘I’d love to.’

He nods. ‘I’ll drop you an email then. We’ll do it.’

Then, hopelessly prematurely, it’s time to go.

‘Goodbye, James,’ I manage. I lean in to kiss him on the cheek – a gesture that feels like the right thing to do, the classy and confident thing to do. Except when I’m an
inch from his skin, I turn awkwardly and he turns awkwardly and we clash noses and laugh. Classy and confident is the last thing it feels.

I’m about to slink away when I realise that, somehow, we’re both still there, next to each other. I look up at him and, despite the proximity, it no longer feels awkward. Not when
his fingers reach for mine. Not when our eyes lock together. Not when I move in closer, like I’m having an out-of-body experience, and press my lips against his in a moment as brief as it
feels audacious.

I’m about to move away when his hand is on the small of my back and, as the bedlam of the airport disappears to nothing, we kiss. A long, memorably sexy kiss – one that reminds me
what was at the top of my big, unruly list of things I have missed.

Read on for an exclusive extract from
The Time of Our Lives
, Jane’s brilliant new novel, available 27 March 2014.

‘I loved
The Time of Our Lives
. It’s funny, sexy and moving – a hilarious holiday romp with a heart’ Sophia Kinsella

Turn the page for an exclusive sneak peek of Jane Costello’s new novel!

Coming to a book shop near you in April 2015.

Also available in eBook

Dan

When a man loves a woman, there are moments when she’ll nudge him out of his comfort zone. Most of the time, he can live with this. He’ll man up and remind himself
what she is to him: his Ingrid Bergman in
Casablanca
. His Patricia Arquette in
True Romance
. His Princess Fiona in
Shrek
(though somehow she never appreciates that
comparison).

However, there are times when even the most temperate of men, and I consider myself among them, approach their limit.

I am standing outside a row of small cottages, set high above the River Dee in Heswall in the Wirral Peninsula. I am clutching the estate agents’ blurb that was thrust at me this morning
– and which I’d shoved into the ‘man bag’ my mother bought me in her enduring quest to turn me into a metrosexual – and my limit currently feels dangerously close.

When, four months ago, my girlfriend suggested that we buy a place together, I was nothing less than keen. Gemma is the sort of woman I never thought would come along: the girl of my most
pleasant dreams, my All Time Great.

But who knew that house-hunting would turn out to be the hardest thing a man could do, outside training as a Royal Marine or venturing into Next on a Saturday?

We started our quest with the old houses we both liked in the Georgian Quarter in Liverpool. ‘We could buy somewhere cheap and do it up,’ I agreed. What a hopeless, naïve
fool.

That was before our chips were thoroughly pissed on, along with all hopes of cracking open the Blossom Hill. The houses in that part of the city – the ones for sale anyway – were
miles out of our price range.

So we widened our search to include anywhere within a forty-minute drive from Liverpool, making the rookie error of believing this would open up a cornucopia of choice. Since then, weekends have
been dominated by viewings of places it was impossible to leave without wondering whether you’d contracted typhoid from the door handles.

Things came to a head last week when we were touring a semi with a pungent nursing home fragrance and a bathroom suite the colour of bile. I was invited to inspect a converted under-stairs
toilet, only to come face-to-face with the owner’s teenage grandson, mid-way through evacuating the by-products of the previous night’s takeaway.

It wasn’t just the puking teenager that did it for me. It was that there was simply nothing left that we hadn’t seen. We’d already viewed a vast spectrum of houses, starting
with The Dead Certs and ending with The Dregs, and one fact was now screaming at us:
WHAT WE WANT DOESN’T EXIST.

Which I must admit, even I find hard to believe. I know we’re first-time buyers with a challenging budget, but our tick-list shouldn’t be insurmountable: nice area, two bedrooms,
running water a bonus.

There is of course another issue, one I couldn’t say out loud: some houses were deemed unsuitable by Gemma for reasons that remain as mysterious and inexplicable as the construction of
Stonehenge.

I’d complete the tour, optimistically anticipating her verdict about a place I couldn’t see anything wrong with, only to be told emphatically that she couldn’t see anything
right about it.

It’s not often that I put my foot down. I’d flatter myself if I could list three occasions in the four years we’ve been together. But we needed a break from this, and I said
so.

To my surprise, she agreed wholeheartedly. For a week and a half, life
Before Rightmove
resumed and the internet was free to exist without risk of Gemma melting it.

Then I got a phone call yesterday asking me to knock off work early to check out this place because it looks ‘completely perfect on paper’.

So here I am.

‘You’re early. Anyone would think you were starting to enjoy all this,’ she grins, clasping my hand as she stands on her tiptoes and sinks her lips into mine. She tastes of the
same cherry lip balm she used to wear when we first got together. I feel a nostalgic pang of regret that this time, instead of heading back for some pleasures of the flesh, I’ve got to go and
pretend I have an opinion on some bay windows.