Page 67 of ReTreat Yourself

My phone pings and I glance at it to see who would be texting me at this very early hour in the morning.

Oh Christ. It’s him.

It says:

Are you okay?

I quickly tap in:

I’m fine, thank you so much for asking.

I can be exceedingly polite when drunk. And bizarrely, I make fewer spelling errors. It’s one of my best features.

He quickly replies.

What are you doing?

I reply:

Working late.

It’s two in the morning. He’ll think I’m working late into the night on my business, helping people. Saving lives. I should tell him I have embarked on my own life-saving journey. I should tell him my soul has been healed and my aura has had a thorough cleanse. Like my vagina.

Working late?

Yes, thank you. May I enquire as to your own working practice?

I’m simply charming, aren’t I?

Unlike yours, it doesn’t involve grown men dressed in nappies.

Shite.

27

My eyes swivel around, searching the bar, but it is impossibly crowded and I’m not tall enough to see over the rugger boys, until a sixth sense crawls over my skin and I feel his eyes on me. I turn around to see Oliver staring right at me. He doesn’t look too pleased. He takes two gigantic strides through the crowd, and he’s reached me.

I give him a confused look. I look from my sister to Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen, who are simply riveted by this exchange between me and the handsome giant from the ICF.

‘How did you know I’d be here?’ I ask him.

He plays a video clip. ‘You sent me this. Fourteen times.’

I watch, mortified, as my camera is trained on a load of hairy bums and then myself looking really rather anxious and exceedingly pissed, and then back to the bums.

‘I recognised the bar straight away,’ he points out, showing me the neon Jolly Roger sign above the bar that comes briefly into view in the video clip. ‘I was worried!’

Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen leans over to my sister and whispers something in her ear. They slip discreetly off their stools to disappear onto the dancefloor.

I take a moment.

‘Thank you for being worried.’

‘I’m just glad you’re okay.’ He runs a hand through his hair. It looks as though he has leapt out of bed to race into Benidorm to check on me. That is very, very thoughtful.

‘You’re an ICF spy,’ I say, tapping the side of my nose. ‘It’d be like sleeping with the enemy.’

He is staring at me with wild eyes. For want of anything better to do, I keep on staring back at him. And swaying slightly. And hiccupping. But in an alluring way.