The Mini Break Read Free Page B

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