The Mini Break

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Jane Costello 2014

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Jane Costello to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47113-498-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Contents

  The Mini Break

  The Time of Our Lives extract

  Love Shack extract

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Day One

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Other titles by Jane Costello

  Sometimes, no matter how much you enjoy your job, you need a break.

  I knew I’d reached this point because I’d started fantasising about business ideas again, those entrepreneurial gems I’d conjured up at about the same time as other, more motivated souls: the cupcake bakery, the home accessories website, the invention of a nifty baby care item (which, I admit, would’ve been challenging given the absence of an actual baby).

  It wasn’t just that though: the bags under my eyes, the double vision when I opened my email inbox and the fact that, without a spray tan, I looked like death warmed up, all said the same thing: I NEEDED A HOLIDAY!

  Problem was, after a difficult few months in my relationship with my credit card, there was no prospect of one, unless I wanted to sit at home watching Jeremy Kyle and reminding myself how desperately my living room needs decorating when I’m back in my credit limit.

  Then Anisha phoned. It was on one of those rain-drenched autumn afternoons when you’re so deflated that the only thing capable of perking you up has three thousand calories and leaves you with an overwhelming sense of failure for the day.

  I was in a meeting at the time – a ‘blue-sky thinking session’ that couldn’t have generated less creativity if someone had put three slugs in a brown bag and asked them to conduct a brainstorm.

  I subtly rejected the first call, then the second and third, but by the fourth I was so concerned something was seriously wrong, that I stood up, muttering: ‘domestic emergency,’ as if my ceiling had just caved in.

  ‘GUESS. WHAT?’

  ‘I’m in a meeting,’ I whispered.

  ‘You’ll want to know this, Sophie. I’ve only gone and got us a five-star holiday!’

  I was temporarily speechless. ‘No way.’

  ‘WAY!’

  Three weeks later, here we are: trundling our bags through Alicante Airport for three luxurious days in Murcia, staying in what is, without question, the poshest hotel I’ve encountered.

  The trip came about because, enticed by the prospect of exotic overseas travel, Anisha jacked in her job in a bank last year to become a trainee travel agent. She’s left Manchester precisely once since, to go to a conference in Nuneaton. This trip, however, sounds like the answer to all her dreams, not least because she was allowed to bring me along at a discounted rate.

  ‘I ought to mention something before we meet the rep,’ she tells me. ‘It’s a small thing really. I was going to say something earlier, but it’s such a non-issue I didn’t bother. Perhaps with hindsight I should’ve brought this up earlier, but I’m totally confident that it’ll be fine.’

  The more she keeps talking the more convinced I am that it won’t. ‘Anisha. What is it?’

  ‘Okay.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘As you know, I was well overdue the chance to go on a trip but as the new girl, I kept being overlooked. So I kind of . . . took matters into my own hands. To precipitate things a little.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘This could be so much worse . . .’

  ‘What could?’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘We’re here on a golfing holiday.’

  I digest this revelation: I’d known the hotel was on a golf resort from my near-obsessive Googling in the last three weeks. Clearly, I’d assumed we wouldn’t be going near the course ourselves.

  ‘It could be worse,’ I decide. ‘I’ve never played golf, but as long as they know we’re both novices, we’ll be fine giving up an hour or so each day to have a try. I’ve done scuba diving before – I’m willing to give anything a go.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What do you mean, “hmm”?’

  ‘Look, I’ll fill you in properly later, but whatever you do, do not tell anyone you’re a novice,’ she says.

  I flash her a sideways glance as we pass through the sliding doors leading to Arrivals. ‘Why?’

  ‘You had to have a golf handicap to be eligible for the trip: that was one of the conditions,’ she tells me.

  Among a row of taxi drivers, chauffeurs and holiday reps, I spot a sign with our names on it. It’s upside down.

  ‘The travel company is having a push on attracting serious golfers,’ Anisha continues, ‘but the only person who’s ever been near a set of clubs in our office is Nigel, my boss, and it’s his wedding anniversary. He was thinking of turning it down altogether until I told him about my enthusiasm for the sport.’

  ‘A sport you’ve never played . . .’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ she hisses as we approach our sign. ‘It’s only a formality, but for the purposes of the next four days, you have a handicap of six.’

  Panic rises up in me. ‘I have no idea what that means!’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ she whispers through a demented smile. ‘Hello!’

  The guy with the upside-down sign has that tall-dark-handsome vibe going on, the kind that’s made me question my intelligence on occasions in the past. His clothes are the definition of Mediterranean smart-casual: stone-coloured Armani jeans, white T-shirt against tanned arms. Very tanned arms.

  When he smiles it’s wide and warm and a little bit heart-stopping, so much so that I have to remind myself that this is what happened the first time I set eyes on Daniel Madden. And Miles Bowden-Smith. And Charlie Welsh. And look where they left me: broken-hearted, stripped of all dignity and, in Charlie Welsh’s case, with a smashed pencil case. (It was in primary school. I stamped on it in a huff when he went off with Diane Little. I’ve managed to refrain from similar outbursts since, despite repeated provocation.)

  ‘You must be Anisha – and Sophie.’ We shake hands. ‘I’m James. I look after marketing for the hotel. And I’m your chauffeur for today.’

  I’d assumed until he opened his mouth that he was Spanish, but it’s clear he’s British, even if I couldn’t place the accent beyond that. We smile and nod and note how warm it is and how pleasant our flight was, at which point he invites us to follow him to the car park.

  He pops open the boot of an imposing white 4x4 and hesitates. ‘I’ve just realised you haven’t got your clubs. Did you forget to collect them from the carousel?’

  ‘Ah, well . . .’ begins Anisha, ‘one of the women I was liaising with
from the tour company suggested it’d be better to hire clubs while we’re here. They said it’d be easier, and there’d be less of a risk of loss or damage to our own.’

  ‘Oh.’ He raises his eyebrows and my heart starts to pump alarmingly fast. ‘Okay, I’m sure I can sort that.’

  ‘Would’ve been nice if they’d told you, eh?’ she adds, rolling her eyes theatrically as I make a mental note to remind her when to stop talking.

  He heaves our bags into the boot as Anisha slides into the passenger seat, while I crawl into the back, hoping to hide from any golfing questions. It’s a strategy that proves hopelessly ineffective.

  ‘You’ve got handicaps of six and seven I believe,’ he says, gripping the steering wheel as we speed along the motorway.

  ‘That’s right,’ I reply decisively, in the absence of a response from Anisha.

  ‘Very impressive.’

  I hesitate. ‘Is it?’

  He laughs, as if I’m being modest, not just befuddled.

  ‘So the plan is for you to check into the hotel this afternoon. We’ve booked dinner for you in the restaurant this evening, then tomorrow your tee time is at twenty past nine. I can meet you in reception at eight forty-five and take you to the pro shop myself to make sure you’re all set.’

  ‘Fab!’ Anisha says.

  ‘Good. I think you’ll love the course. It’s very scenic – and challenging. We’ve booked you in for every morning of your trip, except Friday, when the Palermo Cup takes place.’

  ‘Oh yes, the Palermo Cup,’ I nod, having apparently developed Golfing Tourette’s.

  ‘Hosting the tournament is a real coup for the resort. It attracts golfers from all over the world. So on that day, unfortunately, you’ll have to stick to the spectating. Shame you couldn’t enter the amateur competition – with those handicaps you’d have been in with a good shot. But all the places have gone, sadly.’

  Anisha scrunches up her nose. ‘Ooh, that is a shame, isn’t it?’

  Fair play to Anisha, the hotel is nothing less than spectacular. That evening, I’m lounging on a plush Bedouin-style sofa overlooking a vast infinity pool as darkness descends on the resort and a constellation of palm trees rustles in the breeze.

  There’s a family on an adjacent table that look straight out of a Boden catalogue (complete with perfect, dimple-cheeked children) and next to them, several groups of guys about our age – late twenties – with the clear potential to become rowdier as the night wears on.

  The lights from the pool bar twinkle as I sip my fifth glass of Cava since dinner (and I’m not normally a big drinker), which consisted of the most delectable sequence of dishes to ever pass my lips.

  The evening, in short, should be perfect. But I’m preoccupied.

  ‘Handicaps are numbers that indicate roughly how close to par a player is expected to shoot in a given round,’ I read from my phone to Anisha in a hushed whisper. ‘A player’s handicap score is found by scoring his or her last twenty rounds individually, then averaging the ten best and multiplying by point nine-six. For your handicap strokes from a single round, consult the scorecard and find the course slope and rating from the tees played. Subtract the rating from the score, divide by the slope and multiply by one hundred and thirteen.’ I look up. ‘I need to go and lie down in a dark room.’

  Anisha swallows a mouthful of her drink. ‘You’re getting awfully wound up about all this. You know, I feel so much more relaxed about everything since I met Adam. He brings out the best in me.’

  Anisha met The One about two months ago – a newly qualified junior doctor who’d moved into the apartment above hers and who would no doubt have been on this trip in my place had he not been forced to work this week. It’s lovely to see her so happy; she’s never come close to finding someone before now. But I must admit, her unrestrained state of infatuation does serve as a constant reminder of how very single I feel at the moment.

  I can’t deny that after I’d done my crying when my long-term boyfriend Joel and I split up nearly a year ago, a bit of me enjoyed the novelty of being on my own. But like all novelties, it’s started to wear off. And while I’m not looking – you never find someone when you’re looking – I can’t help feeling that something’s absent from my life right now.

  I don’t know if it’s necessarily love.

  But whatever it is consists of a big, unruly list of things I miss: curling my arm round someone in bed . . . talking long into the night . . . having sweet-dirty thoughts about a man there’s a vague possibility of re-enacting them with (because I’ve given up on Ryan Gosling).

  ‘You need to relax, Sophie,’ Anisha tells me, breaking my train of thought. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

  ‘How can I relax when I’m supposed to be playing golf tomorrow at a level that appears to be extremely high, when in reality I wouldn’t know one end of a club from my elbow? Or arse. Oh, you know what I mean. Why did you say we had handicaps of six and seven anyway? Couldn’t you have said something less impressive?’

  ‘I had no idea they were impressive at the time – I just blurted two numbers out to Nigel. I was thinking on my feet. Anyway, don’t worry . . . I’ve got it all sussed out.’ She leans in drunkenly, taps her nose and winks – hoping, I can only presume, to imbue a sense of confidence.

  ‘Got all what sussed out?’

  She leans back with a satisfied smile. ‘We don’t have to play golf tomorrow, Sophie. We’ll be just fine.’

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Leave it to me. You don’t need to worry about a thing.’

  I take a deep breath and go to put my phone away.

  ‘Though you might want to do a bit more swotting up. We don’t want to look completely hopeless.’

  Completely hopeless is not the term that comes to mind the following morning. Completely hungover does.

  I peel my cheek off an eight-hundred-thread-count pillow, wondering why we couldn’t bring ourselves to stop drinking until the early hours, as the phone on the bedside table between us springs into ear-splitting life. I leap up with a pounding heart as my brain goes into melt-down. ‘Should I answer that?’ I gasp, apparently unable to think for myself.

  ‘What? Eh?’ Anisha appears from under her sheet like one of the undead rising from its grave. ‘Of course!’ she shrieks, reaching over and grabbing the receiver. ‘Ugh . . . hello. Sorry . . . we got caught up at breakfast. We’ll be right down.’

  I look at the clock. We’re officially late, my mouth is too dry to form words and, judging by the state of my hair, I appear to have done battle with a belligerent bird of prey during the night. I have a horrible feeling this may set the tone for the rest of the day.

  Given our preposterous state of dishevelment, I’d estimate that it would take a good hour and a half to get myself into an even vaguely presentable state. As it is, we have seven and a half minutes to perform our ablutions and pull on the new golfing gear we bought in the hotel shop before it closed last night. Unsurprisingly, I’d never shopped for golfing gear before, but I knew it was possible to do so stylishly, because I’ve seen Catherine Zeta-Jones in Hello!

  I glance in the mirror and am hit by the bombshell that I do not look like Catherine Zeta-Jones. I look like a pink version of Ronnie Corbett: all Fair Isle triangles, pulled up socks and shorts whose crapness seems directly proportional to their cost.

  When we arrive at the pro shop, James is there, gorgeous, fresh-smelling, eager to greet us. By contrast, I feel as though I’ve climbed out of a compost heap.

  ‘Nice breakfast?’ he asks. My stomach answers before I do, growling loudly. ‘Delicious!’ I cough.

  ‘Great. Let’s get your clubs sorted then. There are just a few forms to fill out first.’

  He hands us a list of questions that make my head spin, many of which I have no idea how to answer. Fortunately, most require only yes or no answers – a 50/50 multiple choice that even I can have a go at. I travel down the list, randomly ticking and crossing before han
ding the form back.

  ‘You’ve had heart bypass surgery?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh – my mistake,’ I say, grabbing back the form and correcting it.

  James leads us to another room where we’re each assigned a set of golf clubs. Anisha examines her bag before bending down and heaving it up, looking and sounding as though she’s popping a hernia in the process.

  James frowns. ‘It’s usually better like this,’ he says, helping it onto her back as her floral Cath Kidston rucksack drops to the floor.

  She grins uneasily. ‘Of course! I usually have someone to do this for me,’ she mutters, as if she’s Tiger Woods. She then proceeds to place the golf bag back on the floor and – presumably in a bid to streamline her belongings – starts tipping the contents of her rucksack into it, a process it’s clear she didn’t fully think through as lip balms and key cards clatter to the bottom.

  James maintains a polite silence, before leading us out into bright sunlight to the golf buggy park, where he flips a key out of his pocket. ‘Who’s driving?’

  Anisha swallows.

  ‘She is,’ we say in unison.

  He laughs. ‘Funny, blokes always fight to be the driver.’

  I glare at Anisha, hoping to make her telepathically aware of my view on this issue: that there is no bloody way I’m driving that thing. It took me three goes to pass my driving test and, five years later, I’ve still got my provisional plates on in the hope that any ill-advised manoeuvres command pity rather than anger.

  She caves under pressure. ‘So do we normally, Sophie’s just being polite. I’ll do it,’ she shrugs, taking the key from him.

  He smiles and doesn’t move.

  ‘Bye then,’ she says.

  He hesitates. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it then. Have a fabulous day. I’m going to check in with you again tomorrow morning but please don’t hesitate to give me a ring in the meantime if there’s anything else I can do. Oh, and I’m going to try to sort out some spa passes for you if that appeals?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I reply, and for a split second I allow myself the fantasy that he’s holding my gaze a little too long.