The Mini Break Read online

  As he starts walking away, I turn to Anisha. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Go and sunbathe on our balcony for a couple of hours – nobody will know we’re not on the course if we’re locked away there. Then we spend the rest of the day by the pool.’

  I nod. ‘Sounds good.’

  When James is out of sight, we start walking back in the direction of the hotel. ‘Hang on,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What if someone realises our buggy hasn’t moved and tells James? We’ll be busted. There’s a valet hovering around over there – he said hello to him.’

  ‘Oh . . . shit.’ She looks around. ‘Okay, I’ve got a plan,’ she says, striding to the golf buggy. ‘Hop in.’

  I frown. ‘Do you know how to drive one of these things?’

  ‘It’s not a Lamborghini. There’s a key and two pedals – go and stop. I think even I can manage that.’

  I lug my golf bag into the back and sit down next to her. I’d have to admit it looks innocuous enough, like a little fair-ground ride. She turns the key and it emits a low hum.

  ‘We need to find somewhere to park this thing and hide it for a couple of hours,’ she says.

  ‘Just don’t go anywhere near where James went.’

  She flashes me another I’m-not-an-imbecile look and puts her foot on the pedal – when it becomes clear it’s not as foolproof as she’d assumed.

  She hopelessly underestimates its horsepower, sending us flying off like we’re on Space Mountain. She then removes her foot, bringing us to a violent stop. This is followed by another attempt to get going – again, way too fast.

  We trundle along the road in this stop-start fashion for the next minute or so while passers-by appear quite taken by the unintentional hilarity.

  ‘This is like a bloody circus,’ I tell her, lowering my hat over my face.

  ‘It’s harder than it looks,’ she says hysterically, as a BMW turns the corner in front of us and slams on its breaks, narrowly avoiding a collision.

  ‘Bugger! This must be a one-way street,’ Anisha shrieks, scanning her eyes round the buggy. ‘Where’s reverse?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know!’

  The BMW beeps again. ‘What are you going to do?’

  She gets out and glares at the driver, hand on hip. ‘Now look here . . .’

  I grab her by the arm and drag her back in. ‘Don’t have a buggy-rage incident – we’re trying to keep a low profile.’

  The owner of the BMW gets out and marches towards us. He’s in his fifties with a large, round belly and a scowl on his face that’d make a Bullmastiff look Botoxed. Then he pauses and takes a good look at both of us. There is an immediate volte-face in his demeanour. ‘Hola.’

  ‘So sorry about that,’ Anisha smiles sweetly. He looks like he’s forgotten already and instead launches into a one-way conversation in Spanish that, even allowing for my poor grasp of languages, sounds very much as if he’s hitting on my friend.

  Anisha glances at me for help.

  ‘Gracias,’ I tell him, nodding and hoping this will encourage him to leave. It doesn’t.

  ‘WE NEED TO GO NOW,’ I mouth loudly, pointing at his BMW. ‘DO YOU THINK YOU COULD MOVE YOUR CAR? WE WILL DO A THREE-POINT TURN.’

  He grins and looks at Anisha’s chest.

  ‘CAN YOU MOVE YOUR CAR?’ Anisha tries again, at which point he slides his elbow onto our roof – trying to look cool – and gives us a full-sensory inspection of an armpit emitting the bouquet of a decomposing camel.

  I glance up and to my horror see James talking to one of the hotel guests a little way down the road.

  ‘Just go,’ I say urgently.

  ‘It’s a bit tricky at the moment,’ Anisha replies.

  James turns and looks in our direction.

  ‘GO!’ I repeat, ‘Before he spots us.’

  So she does – right over Armpit Man’s foot. As Anisha begins a frantic attempt to turn round, he starts hopping up and down furiously, waving his fist at us and banging on the roof of the buggy.

  With no apparent reverse option the only thing Anisha can do is perform a wide, circular manoeuvre – a no-point turn – which takes us directly over the pristinely manicured flower beds. The golf valet, witnessing this illegal move, sprints out of his cubicle to the vandalised begonias, which he examines briefly before making chase.

  ‘DRIVE, ANISHA!’ I yell and she slams on the accelerator until we’re whizzing along a pathway towards the driving range. There’s a trail of billowing dust behind us and I recall that final scene from Thelma and Louise as we head for the horizon, dodging several pushchairs and a pensioner.

  ‘There’s a block of apartments over there – we can hide out behind them,’ I tell her as she manages to perform a handbrake turn without the benefit of a handbrake and darts behind them.

  By the time we finally slow and pull into a discreet parking space, I don’t know what’s making me feel more queasy: the hangover, the adrenalin, or the assault course my stomach has just endured.

  I look at her and shake my head as I think about the fact that we’ve got another two days here. ‘We’re going to have to come up with a better plan.’

  The rest of the day, I’m happy to report, represents something of an improvement. Once we’ve completed the fifteen-minute trek back to the hotel room, collapsed into bed for two hours – having not even made it onto the balcony – we check the coast is clear and make our way back to the buggy.

  We retrieve the two sets of golf clubs we’d hidden behind a bush and Anisha, familiar with its mechanisms now, returns us to the buggy park without incident.

  The valet from earlier has fortuitously finished his shift, so all we have to do is pick up our golf bags and head for a nice lunch at the clubhouse.

  It’s there that I discover a rather surprising fact: if you’re wearing the right gear, and drop sentences – loudly and frequently – into conversation such as: ‘That was a great shot of yours at the fifteenth hole’, then nobody suspects a thing.

  For the rest of the day and night we’re free to sunbathe, eat, drink and chat to the other clientele, as long as we make our excuses when they start asking anything vaguely golf-related.

  When James comes to see us the following morning and asks how we found the course, all I have to do is say: ‘It was wonderful. We loved the way each hole requires the utmost attention and concentration; everything rests on the player’s ability and problem-solving skills to overcome the obstacles on the course.’

  I took that directly from a golf course review website I found and have used it precisely five times on different people in the last seven hours.

  To my surprise, the whole charade is proving to be an absolute doddle.

  By the end of our second full day, I’ve read so many golfing websites and leaflets in the pro shop, as well as regurgitating conversations overheard in the clubhouse, that I’ve nearly convinced myself I can actually play the game.

  As we’re wandering back to the hotel that evening after having ‘been on the course’ all afternoon, I’ve almost forgotten there’s any subterfuge involved whatsoever.

  James bounds over to us as we’re heading for the lift. ‘How was your round today, ladies?’

  ‘Well, James, the two hundred yard par three that’s slightly uphill was a challenge, but by the time we got to six and seven things were less troublesome. The back nine is a little more open up until the eighteenth, don’t you find?’

  He responds with a twinkly-eyed laugh that makes my insides turn over. ‘I wouldn’t know – golf’s not my game.’

  ‘Really?’ Anisha asks.

  ‘I’m afraid not – I just represent the hotel. I wouldn’t know one end of a golf club from . . . anyway. I came to ask if it’d be possible to spend ten minutes or so with you both this evening to let you know a bit more about the hotel and the area. I promise it won’t be the hard sell – I just need to tell my boss I’ve given you the full run-down.’

  �
��I’d expect nothing less given that they’ve been generous enough to invite us on this trip,’ Anisha replies.

  We meet James that evening in one of the bars overlooking the pool.

  ‘Before I get started,’ he begins, ‘I have some news for you both.’

  ‘The spa passes?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘Better. I’ve managed to get you both places in the amateur round of the Palermo Cup tomorrow. Two competitors dropped out.’ He looks at our faces expectantly, the expectation apparently being that we’ll leap up and down with joy.

  In fact, Anisha has turned green.

  ‘You could be on television and everything,’ he adds.

  Anisha manages a flaccid, ‘Brilliant!’

  ‘You’re not nervous, are you?’ he asks.

  ‘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.