Wish You Were Here (7 page)

‘You must like it.'

‘It's great. I guarantee you'll have the best time ever here.'

‘That's good to know.'

She paused. ‘Do you like clubbing?'

‘Yeah,' I replied, mainly because I suspected that at least in her eyes this was the correct answer.

‘Where do you go out in London?'

‘I don't,' I replied. ‘I'm from Brighton.'

‘I know Brighton,' she replied. ‘I've been clubbing there loads of times. I bet you're a regular at places like Purple Paradise and Computer Love.'

‘Yeah, I know those,' I bluffed.

‘Excellent,' said the girl-in-the-cowboy-hat. ‘I don't suppose you know a bar in Malia called Pandemonium do you? It's on the main strip. You can't miss it. It's the one with the neon rabbit sign.'

‘I could probably find it,' I replied.

‘Well, I just thought you might like to know me and my friends will be in there around midnight tomorrow night if you want to join us.'

‘That sounds great,' I said coolly. ‘Midnight, tomorrow, Pandemonium.'

‘Right then,' she smiled, ‘I'd better go.'

‘It was nice to meet you,' I said trying my best to hide my confusion.

‘It was nice to meet you too,' she replied. She paused and then added: ‘Oh, and bring your mates too. My friend Liz quite likes the one with the shaven head . . .' Tom. ‘. . . and my friend Luce quite likes the guy in the red top.' Andy. ‘So, I might see you tomorrow night then?'

‘Yeah,' I replied. ‘Tomorrow night it is.'

Watching her walk away I was barely able to breathe as I considered what had just happened. It appeared as if an amazingly attractive young girl had just asked me out. I turned round to search out Andy and Tom to tell them my good news but they were standing right behind me wearing looks of pure bewilderment.

‘Who was that?' asked Andy immediately.

‘I don't know,' I replied. ‘She didn't tell me her name.'

‘She was spectacular,' continued Andy. ‘What did she want?'

‘I think she wanted to ask me out . . .'

‘You're joking!'

‘No, she invited me to join her and her friends in some bar in Malia around midnight tomorrow.'

‘Now that is pretty amazing,' said Tom. He patted me on the back. ‘Well done, fella.'

‘You see?' said Andy. ‘No offence, Charlie mate, but back in Brighton girls who look like that don't normally come up to blokes who look like you and say meet me in a bar around midnight, do they? The only place that things like that happen is right where we are now – on holiday.'

‘This is too weird for words,' I said, still somewhat stunned. ‘She even said that one of her mates fancied Tom.'

‘Brilliant,' laughed Tom. ‘It's always nice to know that you can still turn a few heads when you want to.'

‘Just wait until they find out you're a married born-again Christian though,' teased Andy. ‘So,' he continued, turning to me, ‘which one of the girls fancied me?'

I opened my mouth to reply but stopped as I recalled my promise to Lisa. ‘Sorry, mate,' I replied, ‘she didn't mention anything about you at all.'

‘Not a single word?'

‘Nothing at all.'

‘That's just because they've yet to feel the full force of my personality,' said Andy philosophically. ‘You wait until tomorrow night when they finally meet me in the flesh. I guarantee you, my friend, the girls of Malia will be all over me like a rash.'

With our luggage piled precariously high on a single trolley we made our way through customs and out the other side. It was easy to spot where we had to go next as waiting expectantly underneath an awning set up at the main exit were dozens of brightly jacketed holiday reps, clipboards and pens at the ready. Ours was a diminutive Glaswegian called Debbie who didn't bat an eyelid when we gave her our names and she pointed us in the direction of the coach that would transfer us to the hotel.

‘Who'd have thought it would be this easy to shave five or six years off your age?' said Andy once we were out of earshot. ‘There'll be no stopping us now.'

It took a good half hour for everyone assigned to our coach to arrive. Once we had our full contingent of passengers, however, our driver seemed determined to make up for lost time at all cost and drove with a recklessness that showed scant regard for his own or anyone else's safety. Despite the threat of impending doom, a combination of the constant growl of the diesel engine, the darkness outside and simple exhaustion sent me to sleep and I only woke up on hearing the driver bark in heavily accented English: ‘Apollo Apartments! Quick! Quick!' from the front of the coach.

The three of us hurriedly gathered our things together and launched ourselves off the coach. Leaving its air-conditioned cool we were once again plunged into the Cretan heat and within seconds were dripping with sweat.

‘Home sweet home,' said Tom looking up at the lilac building in front of us; it had two floors and an outdoor terrace café that faced on to the road.

I was just about to ask Tom whether it was obligatory for all hotels to have some sort of reference to Greek mythology in their name when a male voice with a strong Welsh accent came from behind me.

‘I see you've brought the weather with you then?'

I turned round to see a short, crumpled-looking middle-aged man with an overly red face. He was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat tied underneath his chin to keep it in place, a bright pink T-shirt and Union Jack shorts.

‘What an idiot,' he said taking into consideration our natural English sense of reserve as we stared at him blankly. ‘It's all right, guys, I'm not just some random nutter. I'm Steve the bar man . . . but you lads can just call me Mr Barman if you like.'

Out of politeness we laughed and then watched as he introduced himself to our fellow residents (a group of six lads in their late teens and a couple of girls in their twenties). Along with the other new arrivals we followed Steve-the-Barman into the hotel lobby. Inside there was a small unmanned reception desk and standing next to it a large bright orange board with our tour operator's logo at the top. A cavalcade of leaflets was pinned to it, advertising a host of parties, barbecues and bar crawls. While Steve-the-barman took the group of lads and the two girls to their rooms the three of us remained in the lobby with our luggage momentarily lost in our own thoughts.

‘I'm knackered,' said Tom eventually. ‘It's two o'clock Monday morning back home. Normally I'd be in bed next to my Anne right now.'

‘I'd probably be alone in bed right now,' I replied, ‘which bizarrely doesn't seem like such a bad prospect at all.'

Andy sighed. ‘What's wrong with you two? You're like a couple of old women. We're on holiday. There's no work tomorrow. If you want to sleep late you can. If you want to get up early and just stare out of the window you can do that too. This is what being on holiday is all about – getting the chance to do what you want when you want.'

‘But it's two o'clock in the—' Tom stopped as Steve-the-barman returned.

‘Right then, lads,' he said cheerily. ‘I'll give you the guided tour shall I?' We all nodded. ‘That over there,' he said, pointing to the gigantic wide screen TV which was showing an old Robert Wagner film, ‘is fifty inches of top-class satellite televisual entertainment. It's got the lot. All the films. All the music. All the channels . . . all the sport.'

We all looked at the TV. He was right. It was stupidly large. Ridiculously so. It was probably visible from space. But the picture seemed wrong. The colours seemed too bright and the picture had a soft sheen about it that was distracting.

‘Which teams do you follow?' asked Steve.

‘Arsenal,' said Tom. ‘But I don't go to the matches.'

‘Man City,' said Andy. ‘Although I haven't been to a game in a few years.'

Steve looked at me expectantly. ‘No one,' I replied feebly.

‘I'm a Spurs man myself,' continued Steve quickly glossing over my lack of footballing allegiances. ‘Although they haven't exactly had their best season have they?' He laughed. ‘Anyway, there'll be plenty of European friendlies on during the week so you won't miss any of the action.' He paused and for a moment looked like an overgrown cherub. ‘I hope you don't mind me asking, boys, but what made you choose Malia for your holiday?'

Tom pointed to Andy. ‘It was his idea.'

‘I only ask because . . . well, because we don't tend to get many people your age here.'

‘What do you mean?' replied Andy shiftily. ‘I'm twenty-eight.'

Steve-the-barman chuckled heartily. ‘If you say so, mate.'

‘Give it up, Andy,' said Tom. ‘He knows we're over thirty because we stick out like a sore thumb – a thumb that's been battered senseless by a sledgehammer. Didn't you notice on the coach on the way over here that there wasn't a single person on it over twenty-five? They might call it an eighteen-thirty holiday but no one goes on these things past the age of twenty-five.'

‘It's true,' said Steve-the-barman. ‘Compared to ninety-nine per cent of the lads and lasses in Malia you are ancient.'

‘Even if we are a bit mature,' replied Andy, ‘it makes no odds. Charlie here managed to pull some cracking bird at the airport without even trying.'

‘Only because it probably wouldn't have occurred to her that people as old as us would dream of going on to somewhere like Malia,' said Tom.

‘Do you remember when we used to go out on the pull when we were at university and we'd see packs of greasy old men eyeing up the girls we were with?' I said to Andy with a sigh. Andy nodded. ‘Well, I've got a horrible feeling that we're the greasy old men now.'

‘Enough of me yakking on at you, eh?' said Steve-the-barman uncomfortably. ‘I bet you want to get to your rooms and freshen up a bit.'

We all followed him back to the reception, through an open archway and up a flight of stairs. ‘Here we go,' he said, unlocking the door to apartment six. ‘This way.' We all stepped into what appeared to be the kitchen but then right in front of us was a small table so I concluded that it was a dining room too. Then just behind the table was a large uncomfortable-looking sofa-bed which was clearly for the third person in the party, making it also a bedroom. We exchanged worried glances. The main bedroom was much better. There were two single beds, a wardrobe and a dressing table and very little else but at least it was clean. The only worrying thing was the temperature in the room.

‘How do people sleep in this?' I asked Steve-the-barman. ‘It's like a furnace in here.'

‘They don't,' he replied, ‘not unless they pay the extra to have the air-conditioning turned on.'

‘We'll pay,' I said, without consulting the others.

‘A wise decision,' said Steve-the-barman, giving me a wink, ‘I'll get you the key and the remote control for the unit in a minute.'

The rest of the apartment was equally uninspiring. There was a TV but it had only three channels; a very basic tiled bathroom with a shower which Steve warned didn't really give out any hot water until about three in the afternoon; and then finally he slid open the doors to the balcony.

‘You've done well here, boys,' he said, ‘you've got a sea view. Not that you can see it now of course.'

I looked at the skyline and at the very bottom where the dark blue appeared to meet the black I could just about make out the lights of a passing ship.

‘He's right you know,' I replied. ‘We have got a sea view.' I looked down below. ‘And a view of the hotel pool too.'

‘Well, I'll leave you to it,' said Steve. ‘The bar will be open as late as you like tonight if you want a drink in a bit.'

We finally made it downstairs to the bar an hour and much arguing later. The problem was that no one wanted the sofa-bed and we couldn't agree a fair way of solving the problem. Tom suggested a rota but Andy hated that idea. I suggested drawing straws, but Tom said that the way his luck was running at the moment he would be bound to draw the short straw. Andy suggested that we arm wrestle for it but as I hadn't been near a gym for years I shot down that idea. In the end Tom announced that he would volunteer to take the sofa-bed if it meant that we could all stop arguing. Andy just laughed and muttered something about Christian charity in action. Relieved that we wouldn't have to sleep in the kitchen, Andy and I promised to compensate Tom by making sure that he didn't have to buy a single round of drinks for the rest of the holiday.

‘What are you having?' I asked my friends. The bar was virtually empty apart from a group of lads in one corner and the girls that had arrived on our coach in another. Maybe people were put off drinking there by Steve-the-barman's dress sense, or the Billy Joel greatest hits album that was playing over the sound system.

‘I'll have a pint,' said Andy.

‘We're in Europe,' I replied. ‘It's litres and half litres here.'

Andy sighed and sat on one of the tall stools in front of the bar. ‘I'll have a litre, then.'

‘Me too,' replied Tom.

‘I knew you'd guys would be down,' said Steve cheerfully. ‘Oh, and sorry about bringing up the age thing. Just to give you boys a proper welcome – and to show you that the Apollo Bar welcomes anyone no matter how prehistoric – I've got something special for you.'

Intrigued, we watched as Steve walked over to a large chest freezer and pulled out a plastic bottle filled with clear liquid. He carried it back over to the bar and then set three shot glasses up in front of us and began pouring.