an air of mystery, my short denim shorts giving me a hint of sexiness. Alex would be swimming, and he’d look up and see me on the shoreline. I wouldn’t know he was watching, I would be simply walking along, lost in my own deep thoughts, beautiful but oblivious to my beauty. Like footage from The Bachelorette, when they’re reflecting on the lead’s journey as an emotionally troubled but extremely desirable woman looking for True Love. Except I would be thinking about important things, like housing affordability and climate change and healthcare.
In reality, I was hot and sweaty within seconds of being outside, the denim shorts chafed my thighs quite badly, and I stepped on a non-poisonous (I hope) jellyfish and it squished between my toes which made me shriek loud enough that an older woman rushed over and asked if I was okay. And I got sunburnt in splotches on my legs, my arms, my chest, my nose, my forehead and my neck. Plus, I didn’t see Alex all day.
So now I’m lying on the bed upstairs, being pathetic. Lucy is very good at sympathy, much better than my mother, so I like to play things up to her. We both slot easily into carer/being-cared-for roles.
‘Did you wear a hat?’ Lucy asks, popping the cap off the aloe vera gel.
‘No. But I wore sunscreen.’
‘You need both.’
‘I know.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Hot. And cold.’
‘You might have sunstroke.’
‘Is that serious?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. You’d better drink some water.’
‘What’s the candle for?’
‘It’s scented. Sea mist. It smells like the beach. Mariella said it will relax you.’
‘We’re at the beach. The air here already smells like the beach.’
‘Yes, but the scented candle version of the beach is supposed to more relaxing.’
Lucy lights the candle, sits down on the bed and frowns at me. ‘There’s sand on the bed,’ she says.
‘I know.’
‘How did you manage to get so much sand on the bed?’
‘It sticks to me, even when I try to rinse it off.’ I look up at her with my most pitiful face.
I rub aloe vera gel all over myself, until I am shiny, and then Lucy drapes the wet washer over my face.
‘Do I really need this covering my whole face?’ I ask, muffled.
‘Yes,’ Lucy says with authority.
Then Zach walks in.
‘Hello, O Burnt One.’
‘No teasing. I’m in a fragile state,’ I say.
‘Did you wear a hat?’
‘I don’t care for that line of questioning.’ I can see everyone is going to keep harping on this no-hat fact.
Zach sits down on the bed and frowns. ‘Why is there so much sand everywhere?’ he says.
‘God, you and Lucy spend too much time together. Your brains are melding together.’
There are footsteps walking down the hall and into the room, and then the one voice I am both dreading and dying to hear.
‘Hey guys…what’s wrong with Natalie?’ Alex says.
‘Sunburn,’ I say.
‘Oh no,’ he says, but he has laughter in his voice.
‘She might have sunstroke,’ Lucy says, in her most serious carer’s voice.
‘Why are you so shiny?’ Alex says, and his voice is closer.
‘Aloe vera gel.’
‘I’m not even going to ask about the washer over your face.’
‘Please don’t. I’d prefer it if everyone just looked away from me, actually.’ Motto of my life.
Later, after dinner, I’m in the bathroom brushing my teeth and examining my sunburn (red and getting redder) when Zach walks in.
‘I’ve got a favour to ask.’
‘Okay,’ I say, through a mouthful of toothpaste. I know what he’s going to say.
‘It’s a big one.’ He’s got his serious face on.
‘I’m listening.’ I spit into the sink.
‘Can we switch rooms again tonight?’
‘And where will Alex be sleeping?’ I ask.
‘On the trundle bed.’
‘I don’t know.’ I can’t look too eager, because then Zach will be suspicious. Also, Zach doesn’t know I like Alex, and if I didn’t like Alex, then sharing a room with him would be scary, in a different way to the way it is scary now, and Zach should feel bad about asking me to do it. Zach is a good person, but he’s also a teenage guy with priorities: Lucy, having sex with Lucy, then a lot of air, then me and his family, then the rest of the world.
‘You won’t have to talk to him or interact in any way, I promise,’ Zach says.
‘Does he know about this plan?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say about it?’
‘He said it was fine.’
Fine. What a small, ungenerous word. Fine is not excitement, or hidden desire, or even pretending not to be excited. Fine is indifference. Fine is fine.