‘Oh come on, don’t fall out with me.’ I say it with the same forced jocular tone we both seem to have mastered.
‘Don’t worry – I’m going. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ The sour tone in his voice sends a ripple of irritation through me. Yet, I can’t help feeling something else as I watch his muscular back heading through the double doors – something I’d rather not dwell on.
When Oliver returns, it strikes me how lovely he looks tonight: in black open-necked shirt and low-slung jeans. He sinks into the chair next to me and smiles his cute, sexy smile. ‘So we’re finally alone.’
As I absorb his eyes, his slim hands, the soft skin on his neck, I remind myself how long I’ve wanted this man. The thought that this could be the moment is tantalisingly sweet, erotic in its own right. He reaches out to gently take my hand, turning it over and using his fingers to trace the lines on my palm.
‘Which is how I prefer it . . . don’t you?’ The lust with which he looks at me makes my insides turn to marshmallow.
‘Yes,’ I bleat. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Has anyone ever said you have eyes like a fairytale moon, Abby?’ From anyone else this would sound corny. But the way Oliver says it is poetry – far removed from the slightly diffident man who struggled to know how to flirt when I first met him.
‘Not lately,’ I reply, as his fingers make their way up my arm.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve felt a certain . . . frisson between you and me.’ His eyes are twinkling mischievously.
‘In fact,’ he continues, his strokes setting off electrodes in my skin, ‘maybe it’s more than a frisson. Maybe it’s two people – two happy, grown-up people – who are destined to do grown-up things together.’
I’m not even listening to what he’s saying. All I can concentrate on is how close his hand has become to my breast, as it has edged its way up my arm. I’m struggling to breathe as I look up at his face.
‘So, the question is, Abby,’ he murmurs, ‘will tonight be the night when we finally make love?’
Sex with Oliver is flawless.
He is a technical genius, the living embodiment of every erotic manual ever written. He knows tricks and positions that make the
Kama Sutra
look like the collected works of Enid Blyton. He is a perfect ten and nothing less.
Afterwards, he lies back with his hands behind his head as I drape my arm over his chest in a post-coital haze, barely able to believe what has just happened.
Because, frankly, I’m stunned.
I’d imagined that Oliver’s performance in bed would emulate his seduction skills: slow to start off and slightly clumsy, ending in a blaze of glory. Not a bit of it. He’s clearly a natural: confident and skilled from start to finish. I don’t quite know what to make of it.
‘That was fantastic, Oliver.’ I don’t mean it to, but my compliment comes out as if I’m assessing a triple pike.
‘Thank you,’ he smiles, clearly not minding, as he leans over to kiss me. ‘How many times did you come?’
‘Oh . . . enough,’ I say, being deliberately mysterious. He’s satisfied with the answer, even though it’s not strictly true.
Despite the sex being spectacular, I didn’t actually have an orgasm. I faked one, obviously – it’s only polite. But I was way too nervous to relax and enjoy the moment. Which in some ways is a shame because, having wanted Oliver for so long, I should have had a Meg Ryan moment when he first touched my hand in the bar.
I sleep restlessly in his room, watching his chest move up and down and listening to the faint grind of his teeth. At seven on the dot, he wakes without an alarm and skips out of bed.
His bum is perfect. His torso is perfect. He is perfect. Then, as he opens the curtains and sunlight is cast onto his body, I notice something rather less than perfect: marmalade-coloured streaks of Miami Tan.
It is swathed across his limbs, stomach and back in elaborate strokes, leaving him looking like a human version of the Turin shroud.
‘I’d better get dressed and sneak back to my room,’ I say hastily. ‘Don’t want anyone finding out about us, do we?’
‘I don’t mind if you don’t,’ he winks, as I spot the faint outline of a tangerine handprint inches from his groin.
My day is sprinkled with flashbacks of sex with Doctor Dishy like specks of lovely, dirty fairy dust. Finally, it happened!
Yet knowing that he likes me enough to sleep with me opens a whole load of other insecurities. Not least of which is whether he wants to do it again.
This issue dominates my thoughts to the exclusion of all others, except when I spot Tom as I set off on the morning run, when my thoughts swing violently to him. I studiously avoid eye-contact with him and it’s not difficult. He doesn’t look at me, concentrating instead on warming up and chatting to the Spanish instructor.
I take a shower after the run and decide to go for a wander. Oliver is by the pool, his torso covered by a T-shirt and he’s gazing at his sun lotion. I can’t work out why he looks so confused until I see him scrubbing at his legs with the corner of his towel.
He looks up, sending a rush of panic through me. I wave, cursing myself for looking so uncool even as I’m doing it. But he lifts up his hand and waves back, managing to look significantly less daft than me. I head to the bar to get a bottle of water, hoping that – even if he realises I’m responsible for the Marigold streaks on his torso – he comes over.
He doesn’t.
And after five minutes of hoping and waiting, I finally saunter to the hotel, passing his sunlounger en route. But he’s fallen asleep. I try not to read too much into this, or the fact that we’ve barely seen each other all morning, but by the time I head to dinner I’m starting to feel distinctly uneasy.
It doesn’t abate through dinner either, as – by accident or design, I can’t decide which – we end up on separate tables. After we’ve eaten, I head to the terrace and sit in the same seat as last night, hoping that some symmetry of fate will prompt a repeat of yesterday evening.
Instead, Mau idly comes and sits next to me, jabbering on about how she wishes they’d bring back Tupperware parties because it was a good excuse to get together and have a gossip and get sloshed and you only had to spend a couple of quid on some lousy plastic boxes to do so.
Instead of going to bed one by one like last night though, everyone decides they want to stay up and chat. Tom’s on good form tonight, amusing the group with a series of dry one-liners that causes Janice to choke on her non-alcoholic cocktail more than once. He doesn’t say much to me – and he’s not the only one. By midnight, Oliver is still two tables away and has paid me less attention today than in the entire time I’ve known him.
I find myself looking at him, at those beautiful eyes, as he’s deep in conversation with Geraldine – and wondering if last night really happened. If someone spiked that one glass of wine and made me hallucinate the whole thing. Just when my insecurity can’t get any more intense, he turns and stares directly into my eyes. Then he winks. And smiles. And raises an eyebrow as he gestures to the door. It’s a clear signal – and I feel as if I might pass out with relief.
‘Right everyone, you’ve tired me out,’ I say, standing up and yawning theatrically as I look directly at Oliver. ‘I’m off to bed.’
He throws me a look, a private look, one of pure mischief – then his eyes flash to the double doors again.
‘I might turn in myself,’ he says unsubtly. The direct invitation couldn’t be clearer. I head to the lift and wonder if I’ll get to my door before he catches up.
Not only do I reach my door unhindered by Oliver following eagerly in my footsteps, but I also get into the room, into my sexy silk dressing-gown and into a sophisticated but casual pose at the end of the bed.
I lie expectantly, fluffing up my hair, flicking through Spanish television and deciding that when he arrives I’ll crack open the half-bottle of champagne in my mini-bar. But by 1 a.m, I’m drifting off, the only thing on television is a variety of poor soft-porn offerings, and I’m forced to accept that Oliver is not about to turn up with a box of chocs and an unquenchable desire to recreate
Horny Window Cleaners VII.
I consider texting him, or returning to the bar on the pretence of having left something, but dismiss both. You might be many things, Abby Rogers, but desperate you are not. Strike that.
Visibly
desperate you are not.
So instead I sleep alone and fitfully, feeling immediately on edge when I wake the next morning. It’s a sensation that continues as I emerge from the lift for breakfast. Will I bump into him? What will he say? And where the hell
was
he last night?
Just like yesterday, I catch fleeting glances of him throughout the day – at the beach for running; at the pool in the afternoon; later on in the lobby. And on each occasion, I can’t help noticing that he’s chatting to a woman. Not the same woman, I might add.
Several
. Usually the bronzed, lithe crew by the pool – the ones I thought I’d learned to live with.
I mention this to Jess when we speak on the phone before dinner.
‘I did say I wasn’t sure about you and him.’
‘
You
were the one who introduced us,’ I argue. ‘Besides, I’m sure he never used to chat up this many women. It only seems to be since I slept with him.’
‘Abby,’ she continues hesitantly, ‘haven’t you noticed how much flirting he does?’
I scrunch up my nose. ‘But he didn’t at first,’ I protest. ‘At first, he was shy. It’s only lately that I’ve noticed him flirting – and I thought it was just with me.’ I suddenly feel a sharp sense of my own naivety and want to change the subject. ‘How are things on your domestic front?’
‘They’re good. Better. Oh, nothing’s happened or anything – I’m just glad to be home with Adam. Look, we’ll talk when you get home.’
Despite my conversation with Jess, I choose a seat at dinner and subtly put my bag on the one next to it, removing it only when Oliver enters the room. However, he walks to the opposite side of the table and sits next to Mau.
My face reddens as I replace the bag, only to become aware of it being lifted again a second later.
‘Everything okay?’ Tom drops it in my lap and sits down.
I shrug. ‘Fine.’
The truth is, I feel embarrassed and pathetic. Tom knows what happened between Oliver and me – and he can see what’s going on now. The thought makes me cringe.
‘You don’t look fine.’
‘I am. Honestly.’ I look into his dusky eyes and feel my spine relax. ‘But thank you for asking.’
Chatting to Tom makes dinner tolerable – just. Despite this, when everyone heads to the bar for our penultimate night I’m so despondent about Oliver that I consider feigning a mystery illness and going straight to bed.
Then he catches my eye. He holds my gaze for so long that I feel a rush of confusion, frustration and hope. It’s a sensation that makes me stick out the rest of the night – against my instinct – with tension bubbling inside me as I analyse Oliver’s every word to me. One by one, the group disappears until only Tom and Oliver are left again.
‘My round. Same again, Tom?’ asks Oliver, before flashing his cutest smile directly at me. ‘And Abby, I’d hate you to think I’m trying to get you drunk, but what would you like?’
‘Oh, you’ve twisted my arm,’ I laugh, flushing at the comment. ‘White wine, please.’
He heads to the bar and Tom drains his glass. ‘I take it you want me to disappear again?’
I watch Oliver as he orders the drinks from a barmaid with cascades of black hair and a high-necked blouse and bow-tie that does little to wrestle back her abundant bosom.
‘Er, I’m not sure,’ I reply, unable to concentrate on anything except the way Oliver is looking at the waitress.
‘Well, make up your mind,’ Tom huffs.
Oliver is staring hungrily at the waitress’s breasts. What’s more, every time she catches him, he feigns embarrassment. Exactly the way he did with me when I met him at Jess’s dinner-party.
‘What? Sorry,’ I say, snapping out of my daze.
‘Do you want me to leave?’ Tom repeats.
I look at Oliver again and watch him throw the waitress his most outrageously cute, sexy smile, followed by a flash of innocence that gives the impression he has no idea how attractive this is. It’s a routine that I’ve come to know well.
‘No,’ I say decisively, turning to Tom. He looks surprised. ‘Don’t go.’
As the waitress’s giggles echo across the room, Oliver picks up his drink and heads back, locking eyes with me.
‘I mean, yes.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
I take a deep breath. ‘No. Or maybe yes.’
Oliver is only a couple of steps away. ‘That is – no,’ I bluster. ‘I mean, stay.
Definitely
stay.’
Tom scowls as Oliver takes a seat.
‘Sorry, Oliver – you’ll have to have that beer yourself. It’s about time I retired,’ he says, standing up.
‘Oh, stay for another drink,’ I insist, trying to hide my panic. ‘Go on, Tom. Please.
Please.’
I suddenly curse the situation. As I look into Tom’s eyes, something hits me – and not for the first time. Only this time, it doesn’t just hit me, it wallops me repeatedly and relentlessly, like a battering ram.
As I look at Tom and his frighteningly beautiful, masculine face, I know I don’t want to be alone with Oliver at all. And it isn’t only because he’s flirting with another woman and has virtually ignored me for forty-eight hours.
It’s because the man I really want to be alone with is standing up and about to leave. Yet, I’m not allowed to think that. How can I think that, when his girlfriend is upstairs waiting for him?
Oh God, Abby!
Tom hesitates as his jaw tightens. ‘No, it really is time to go. Good night, both of you.’
He catches my eye briefly and looks away. The cold ache it causes in my heart tells me I’ve got to do something to snap out of this – to rid myself of these feelings for a man I can’t have.
As Tom leaves the room, Oliver leans towards me and grabs my hand, gazing into my eyes – making his intentions perfectly clear. Yet, I suddenly wonder whether my feelings for Oliver have, for some time, been a deliberate distraction from Tom.