Beach Cute, page 4
Although he doesn’t have a clipboard.
“Names?” he asks us.
“Luna Guinness,” I tell him, and Instagram Girl says, “Rory Belmont.”
“Then we are all here! Bueno. Please, please, with me.”
There are seven of us altogether waiting for the bus: a couple around my parents’ age who are busy bickering in very quiet voices, an old man who looks weathered and broad and makes me think of the oak tree in the neighbors’ garden, and a woman with a wrinkled face wearing a long peasant skirt. I end up walking behind her and catch a faint whiff of something I’m pretty sure is weed.
Outside, it’s hot. The kind of still, stifling heat that presses up against you, and I can feel myself sweating already, despite still being in the shade of the airport.
I need a lemonade in my hand and a pool lounger, stat.
Instagram Girl had the right idea traveling in those clothes, I think. My leggings are clinging to me in all the wrong places, my hoodie is weighing me down, and I think my rucksack might crush me face-first into the tarmac if I bend forward even a little bit.
Our hodgepodge group shuffles single file out of the airport. The man guiding us eventually stops at a smallish shuttle bus that’s probably white under the thick layers of dust. He gets in the driver’s seat, puts the key in the ignition and starts up the air con. The whole van chugs and churns with the effort. He gets back out and comes around the back to take our luggage.
When it’s my turn, I say, “Excuse me, but—well, shouldn’t you…Don’t you have a list or something? What if you left someone behind?”
He gives me an indulgent smile. “No, Miss Lola, not to worry. I have a wonderful memory, ¿sí? I know who I am collecting.”
I don’t point out the irony that he’s misremembered my name.
He heaves up my suitcase, cheeks puffing out. “Ay, Miss Lola, it seems you have brought all the lists on my behalf!”
He’s so busy laughing that I don’t try to mumble some kind of explanation or defense, just flush and walk away to get on the bus.
Instagram Girl—Rory Belmont—is already onboard, tapping away at her phone from a back seat. She tilts her head and pulls a neutral, not-quite-pouting face to take a selfie, then clicks at her phone and does the same thing but moving slightly as if it’s for a video, and goes back to typing. Jodie, sitting near the middle and in front of the now-deathly-silent couple, has earphones in and is mumbling into her phone—talking to someone, I guess. She’s got her eyes closed and her forehead in her hands. I wonder if she’s still feeling rough from the plane, but don’t want to interrupt her to check whether she’s all right.
I pick an empty seat near the front of the bus. A quick call-up of Google Maps says it’s a fifty-minute drive in current traffic to our destination.
I wish I’d saved some of my water from the flight or bought another bottle at the airport. I’m so hot and so thirsty, and now all I can think about is having to be hot and thirsty for the next fifty minutes, and about the cool lemonade I’m suddenly desperately craving.
Liam would be huffing and puffing and grumbling by now. We went to Lisbon last summer before uni, and he was so irritable in the heat. I got snappy at him for not loosening up and enjoying the vacation, even though I was kind of struggling too. I guess at least this time it’s just me I have to worry about.
Just me.
Four years of always having someone to share everything with, always having plans scheduled with friends and people to join in with, and now it’s me. Alone for the first time—ever.
Oh my God, what was I thinking?
What do I think I’m doing, taking myself off to Spain for an entire week all alone? And on a trip I booked on a drunken impulse! It’s bad enough that I broke up with the guy I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with out of nowhere. I’m not this person. I don’t just drop everything and jet off somewhere, I’m not outgoing or spontaneous or anything remotely like…this. Just because Liam’s out with our not-so-mutual-after-all friends all the time, and drunk me wanted to prove that I’d moved on, too…
The problem is, I don’t know how to be alone.
We haven’t even left the airport yet, but I’m already starting to think this trip cannot be over soon enough.
5 Rory
My top lip is sweating. The backs of my knees are sweating. There’s a trickle of sweat running down my leg, hovering around my ankle in all its grossness.
It takes way too long for us to get to the hotel. The air con begins to sputter out halfway through the trip, and even though it makes a valiant effort to carry on, I don’t feel cooled down. I feel sweaty and gross. My (disgustingly warm and not-too-refreshing) Diet Coke is running precariously low, and I wish I’d thought to buy more water at the airport.
Note to self: you can never buy too much bottled water.
I grab a quick snap, trying to look as cute and polished as possible, and put that advice on my Instagram Story. #TopTip.
There seem to be roadworks on all the routes we take, resulting in heavy traffic. According to the incredibly detailed itinerary Nic made for me, we should’ve been at the hotel well over an hour ago.
My phone battery is almost as low as my Diet Coke supply, and I’ve already drained my portable charger. I turn off the music to conserve the battery and keep myself entertained by looking around at the other people on the bus from my vantage point at the back.
The short, dark-skinned girl at the front—what did she say her name was? Lola? Luna? Something cute like that—looks chilled out and half-asleep. She must be getting the best air-con supply from her seat. Second best, after the driver. Although I seriously do not know how she isn’t melting in those leggings and that thick cotton T-shirt.
There’s the old man built like a mountain, wearing Beats headphones and watching a Studio Ghibli movie on his iPad. He keeps grumbling to himself and twisting in his seat to move the screen out of the glare of the sun. What he’s doing on a digital detox retreat, I have no idea.
The lady just in front of me, however, I can totally see on this kind of trip. With her hemp tote bag, long wavy hair and beaded bracelets, she reminds me a bit of Mum that time she went to a ’70s party dressed as a hippie. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t even own a phone.
The couple on the left must be in their forties, maybe fifties, and they’ve been sniping at each other for a good twenty minutes now. He thinks he forgot to pack the sun cream, but she’s the one who screwed up the online check-in and ended up getting them seats at the back of the plane near the toilets and made them the last ones off. And now he’s checking his email, again. (“Really, Andrew?” she hisses, and I think, Yeah, Andrew, really? and do a quick check of my own emails, but there’s nothing to see.)
The other person on the bus is the nervous flier from the airport. Left phalange reference-getter. I think she’s a little older than me. She’s been tapping furiously at her phone with such a deep frown I think she might need twelve rounds of Botox to get rid of it. She looks even more desperately in need of a break from reality than I do, which is really saying something.
Outside is less interesting. We rattle down main roads with high, sandstone-colored walls of rock, and sparse brown-green shrubbery poking out from the cracks in them. Then we’re traveling down narrow streets, somehow squeezing between two rows of parked cars and blockish white buildings.
I feel like I should appreciate it all. I want to appreciate the sights, but it looks so…bland to me that I can’t find any awe-inspiring beauty in it. Just a street with houses, or the side of a road.
Frankly, I don’t see anything worth getting my camera out for, but I grab a couple of shots anyway.
My stomach twists. Why do I get the feeling this doesn’t bode well for our end destination?
I turn away from the window, fidgeting.
Is it so bad that I want to check my social media, see how my content is doing after all the effort I’ve put into it? Refresh my emails in case the handful of brands I pitched content to have responded—whether good or bad? What if my group chat is going off and I’m missing some drama?
I hate the not knowing. I hate that limbo. I hate feeling like Schrödinger’s damn cat—except sometimes I think a nice quiet death by poison while trapped in a box might be preferable to the crippling anxiety of not knowing things.
I ping Hannah and Nic a text in our WhatsApp chat.
Rory
Still on the way to the hotel. Don’t know how much longer. Slowly dying of heat and exhaustion and lack of phone battery
Nicola
Just as well you won’t need your phone the rest of the week then!!
Hannah
Get off your phone. But also send pics when you get there, I want to see what I’ve paid through the nose for in all its pixilated glory
Nicola
What WE paid for!
Hannah
That’s what I said
Rory
I’m on 18%. Later losers xo
I close WhatsApp and turn my phone face down. I switched vibrate off over the last couple of days in an attempt to ease myself into the whole digital detox thing, but I don’t think it’s worked very well so far—within about thirty seconds the FOMO hits and I turn my phone back over to see if anything new has happened.
* * *
—
Of course, when the bus stops, I feel like this has all been worth it.
The resort stretched out in front of me looks exactly like the photos online, and every bit as picturesque as the advert made it out to be. The way it was going this morning—the busted baggage carousel, the delay—I was almost (read: totally) expecting some ramshackle hut.
But it’s not, and I could almost cry with relief.
There’s a breeze stirring the shrubbery and palm trees. I can see the sea. It’s even close enough that I can hear waves crashing softly. The sky is an unnaturally bright shade of blue and there’s barely a cloud in sight. The air smells like salt water and sand and—
And I’m pretty sure I can smell my own sweat.
Gross.
I pull out my phone, snap some pictures and take one snippet of video to use as the grand finale of my vacation TikTok. I can probably get one last quick upload before I have to turn my phone in…
The hotel is another white block, three stories with lots of windows and wide black wrought iron balconies. It doesn’t take up much space, but the rest of the resort, at least according to the pictures online, is a collection of luxurious villas made of logs and with straw roofs, sprawling across the sand. I can only assume they’re on the other side of the hotel. On this side, the one away from the beach, there’s a big grassy area full of shrubbery with vibrant yellow, pink, red and white blossoms that brighten up the scene.
The driver sets our suitcases down, and we all collect our own.
“I can’t believe you lost the luggage strap,” Mrs. Andrew mutters at Andrew.
“If you’d bought the cheap ones like I said, maybe it wouldn’t matter so much,” he snaps back. “Sixteen quid on a luggage strap. Honestly, Linda.”
Honestly, Linda, I think, watching the whole exchange shamelessly. I spy Nervous Flier hiding a giggle behind her hand.
“This way, por favor,” our driver says with a sweep of his arm, and leads us to the hotel. He leaves the bus key in the ignition and the doors wide open, and Lola/Luna eyes the key nervously, as do I. Shouldn’t he take it with him, even if he doesn’t lock up the bus?
Not that there’s anybody about, I guess. We seem to be miles from anybody and everything. The road to the resort was little more than a dirt track through grass and along the coast.
But still.
Driver Guy leads us down a path I didn’t notice through the flowering bushes, and we lose sight of most of the beach but end up with a better view of the hotel. I steal a few more pictures, trying to be subtle in case I’m told to put my phone away before I’ve even checked in. The whole bottom floor of the hotel is open, like some grand pavilion with columns. It’s white everything everywhere, except for the blue cushions that adorn the white wicker furniture at reception. It’s a much better clip to end my video on; I’m so glad I hadn’t posted it yet.
I hope my room looks this inviting.
And then I realize we’re all coming to a stop.
“Gracias, Rafael,” says a man with the most immaculately groomed twirly mustache I’ve ever seen in my life. The driver nods his head slightly. To us, the man gives a broad smile and opens his arms, palms up.
“Bienvenido a todos,” he declares. “Welcome, all, to Casa Dorada. I am honored to have you here with us today. My name is Esteban Alejandro Álvarez, and I am manager of this resort. Alma?”
There’s a lady at his side who I didn’t see before because she was hidden by the huge old guy. She steps forward, holding a tray of champagne flutes filled with sparkling golden liquid.
Oh God.
This is so perfect.
Like, beyond perfect.
Hannah and Nic have never been so right, and I’ve never been so glad to let them take charge of my life like this. I try not to do the greedy grabby-hand thing when Alma and the champagne come my way, but I think I do anyway.
Mm.
Delicious.
I think it’s only prosecco or cava rather than proper champagne, but I honestly wouldn’t know the difference. After years of parties with whatever alcohol my friends and I could scrounge from older siblings—or sneak from our parents’ kitchen cupboards—until we were old enough to purchase our own liquor, I can’t say I have a particularly refined palate. But it’s chilled and bubbly and everything I need right now.
Even Linda and Andrew seem to mellow a little.
Esteban announces, “Anything you need this week, my team and I are at your disposal. We are here to ensure your stay is…one to remember, ¿sí? Now, if you will all follow me, we will check you into your rooms, collect your phones and begin the trip!”
6 Jodie
A few people start following Esteban Alejandro Álvarez, but all I can do for a minute is stare at his retreating back.
He cannot be serious.
“Excuse me,” I blurt, jogging forward (carefully, so I don’t spill the bubbly in my glass), suitcase abandoned. Esteban stops and turns to look at me. “Sorry, but—did you just say collect our phones?”
“Did you mean passports?” Luna pipes up, her face pulled into a fearful grimace. She’s clutching her phone tightly, which is exactly what I feel like doing.
Esteban laughs, not unkindly. “No, señorita, I meant phones. My English is quite good, I can assure you.”
“Why do you need our phones?” I demand, because I’m still not convinced I heard him right.
My brain rattles through what other words sound like “phones,” but I can’t come up with anything. Maybe he just means they need our mobile numbers? So they can contact us during the week? Maybe it’s in case of emergencies? Yes, that must be it. There’s a totally reasonable explanation for this. Everything is fine.
Esteban turns to the other guests with a confused smile on his tanned, weathered face. “You are aware this is a gadget-free resort, ¿sí?”
There are nods throughout the group, except from me and Luna, who looks every bit as stricken as I imagine I do right now.
This is not happening.
“I’m sorry,” I say as patiently as I can, “but you mean we can’t use our phones? The whole week?”
Esteban laughs again. It’s one of those nice full laughs, but right now it’s grating on me. That laugh and that silly mustache with the twirly ends and the sheer audacity that he’s wearing an Apple Watch and—“Yes, señorita, the whole week. Now, if we are all clear on that, maybe we can proceed with check-in.”
Luna hangs back to walk next to me, eyes wide and still clutching her phone desperately. The tall blond girl at the back of the group who made the joke about the left phalange catches us up.
“So I’m guessing you guys didn’t get the digital detox memo?” she asks, looking at us with sympathy.
“Definitely not,” I mutter. “I mean, I know it said stuff about ‘switching off’ and ‘detoxing’ when I booked it, but I just thought it meant, like, you know, relaxing. Drinking some green tea and having a mud bath or something. I didn’t think it meant literally.”
Looking down at my phone, my stomach twists into knots. I know it’s not exactly like I’ll be missing out on that much when it’s only a few days, but…This is a lot to get my head around. I don’t remember the last time I spent more than a few hours without my phone or any kind of internet connection.
And damn it, I was planning to use this time productively. Get ahead on the job search. Grad schemes open in September and I need to start applying. I was going to brush up my CV, perfect a cover letter…Now I’m just supposed to spend the whole week doing none of that, leaving those tasks to eat into my part-time job this summer and the studying I was going to do to get a head start on next year?
And what about Mum and Gran? I chat with them every day.
How am I supposed to go the entire week without talking to either of them?
“I definitely didn’t read anything about a digital detox,” Luna all but snarls, glowering at Esteban and the rest of the group. Then, all of a sudden, her face relaxes and she lets out a brief giggle. For a second I wonder if the sun’s got to her already and she’s delirious, but then she says with a self-deprecating sigh, “Then again, I was absolutely smashed when I booked this.”
