not working. After a few fumbles, I allow Jim to take over, so he enters the room first.
He pauses, and I bump into him.
‘Oh,’ he says.
‘Oh, what?’
I have to jump to peek over his shoulder.
‘Ah,’ I say.
‘Hmm.’
The twin beds are not twin beds at all. They are one. An inviting kingsize.
Jim puts the cases down and lets out a long, drawn sigh, then leaps forward and dives onto the bed, flopping out like a starfish. It looks like such a great idea that I copy his actions and flop down beside him.
‘You have no idea what boundaries are,’ Jim says.
‘Do you wanna take a shower first?’ I suggest.
‘Do I smell that bad?’
‘No comment.’
The two unopened bottles of Shiraz in my suitcase are begging to be drunk. There are no wine glasses, so I pour wine into the two white coffee cups sitting on white saucers beside the little kettle. I flick the plasma television screen on. A music channel churning out hits from the Seventies and Eighties is playing ‘Sweet Dreams’ by the Eurythmics.
The patter of the shower sounds, steam misting from the bathroom door which Jim has left slightly ajar. I blush, and sip my wine generously. When Jim emerges after a few minutes, just a towel around his lower half and dripping water all over the thick carpet, he looks so different with his long hair flat and wet, stuck to his rather chiseled face, that I feel very grubby. Grabbing my toiletries bag, I take my turn to shower and slip into my PJs, little grey shorts laced with a pink frill, and a matching t-shirt with ‘AMOUR’ printed across the chest. I brush my teeth – oh, heavenly! – but curse my scar, so red without make-up, then wrap my hair up into a towel.
‘Exotic, isn’t it?’ I joke, twirling around the Travelodge room.
‘It’s more upmarket than a chalet in Rhyl,’ Jim says, helping himself to more wine.
‘Where’s Rhyl?’
‘Wales.’
‘Where’s the most exotic place you’ve ever been to?’
‘Rhyl.’
‘Ha ha, very funny.’
Jim flashes me his half smile. ‘What about you?’
My passport is hanging out of my canvas tote bag and I pick it up and toss it to him. He catches it sharp with one hand. He sits on the corner of the bed and flicks through it as if it’s an illustrated storybook. Nodding consistently, he studies the various stamps with an almost geeky interest. Then he finds my photo and laughs – standard procedure – holding it up to compare with my face now. ‘Zara May Khoury’, he reads out. I was twenty-six on that photo, four years ago, with bleached blonde hair and a glowing tan from long days doing very little in the South East Asian sun. I spent four months there after things ended with Zein. Jim closes the passport and hands it back to me, as if he’s read my mind.
‘Wanna know the real reason The Dentists never hit the big time?’ he pipes up with.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, me mate Griffo, his dad got us a gig in Puerto Banus for his mum’s fortieth birthday party, except I never had a passport. And I sort of only admitted that when it was too late.’
‘How late?’
‘As we were all leaving for the airport.’
‘Why didn’t you just Fast Track, get one of those premium appointments?’
‘I was fifteen. I didn’t know.’
‘But, what about the guys, the ones with the awful teeth?’ I tease.
‘Oh, they went. They called me a wanker, got themselves a free holiday. And me, well, I stayed behind in Liverpool.’
‘Did they play without you?’
‘They might’ve called me a wanker, but they’re not wankers. Besides, none of them could sing. Even Mikey, he’s a music teacher now, he’s got great rhythm, but he’s tone deaf. Like you.’
‘Video killed the—’
‘STOP. Anyway, when they came back, all sunburnt and full of lies about sleeping with loads of women, we decided to just stick it out as mates. To be honest, I think that’s why we’re still so tight. The Dentists going platinum probably would’ve torn us apart.’
I drag the towel off my head and, shaking it out, I lay it out on the carpet. Taking the opened bottle, the unopened bottle and remaining snacks, I place them down upon it. I grab a couple of pillows and the cushions that decorate the bed.
‘What are you doing?’ Jim asks.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I say. ‘We’re having a picnic.’
To my delight, Jim plays along.
‘I don’t even know your surname,’ I say, crossing my legs as Jim outstretches his, both of