your right side. Just before you come to the, er, restaurant entrance, you’ll see some stairs. These will take you to the lower ground floor.’
‘OK. What then?’
‘When you are reached the bottom of the stairs, turn left. Walk down the long corridor. You will pass the small hairdressers there. Big purple front with golden sardines. You cannot miss it. Walk past the hairdressers and take your first left turn. There you will see the sports activity reception desk. Someone there will help you.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ Just as I turn to leave, he gently touches my arm.
‘Er, miss. Do you mind very much if I say something to you?’
‘Of course not. What is it?’
He smiles. His eyes crinkle. ‘I have a granddaughter a little younger than you are. She is in her last year at school. I hope that when she is older, she will take me on holiday with her, like you are taking your grandfather. It is such a nice gesture.’
As you might imagine, I’m bloody speechless. By some miracle I manage to smile sweetly and force out ‘Thank you!’
I follow his instructions and in less than a minute I’m in the basement or lower ground floor, if you prefer. I can see the hairdressers ahead of me. The golden sardines painted on the front are about a foot long. They have huge, mad-looking eyes and each one holds various hairdressers’ implements.
I take the left turn and see the sports activity reception desk. A really tall, Gallic-looking guy in a wetsuit walks past me and smiles politely. Behind the desk is a pneumatic blonde wearing a burnt pink crop top which shows off her absolutely flat midriff and incidentally (I’m sure) accentuates her bust. This must be the instructor I saw on the beach this morning, who Tybalt said was an Australian or New Zealander and a real looker. She’s writing something in a book with one hand while tapping a computer keyboard with the other.
She’s a real looker all right. She’s seen me and greets me with a dazzling smile that almost blinds me with its heavenly radiance. How do people get their teeth that white?
‘Good afternoon, madam. I’m Janica. How may I help you?’
She’s Australian. She smiles again, and I can see her eyes quickly take in my hair and my boobs. She’s plainly a natural blonde and you can tell that her other assets have never been near a surgeon’s knife. No one in Harley Street would make a client/customer/whatever look like that. It’s just too damn jutting and provocative. No wonder Tybalt was perving over her.
A thought occurs to me; I’m like a fake version of this girl. The first two things a man would notice about either of us: the boobs and the blonde hair. Hers are real and mine are false.
‘Yes. I was thinking of getting some surfing lessons. One-to-one rather than in a group. I was hoping today and tomorrow, but I don’t know whether you have to book in advance or, er...’
If she hasn’t got anything, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I haven’t got a plan B. I suppose I’ll just have to bite the bullet and go shopping with Estelle. I could do with some more jewellery, anyway.
‘Have you surfed before, madam?’
I wish she’d stop calling me ‘madam’. It’s like I’m some middle-aged, well-to-do old bag who she has to be polite to as part of her job. Is that how I look to her? Do I look like someone you call ‘madam’? I certainly bloody hope not.
Have I surfed before? For a moment, I don’t know. Of course I haven’t. That’s why I’m here.
‘No. I never learned. I couldn’t swim when I was younger, so…’
‘Aw. Well you’re going to love it. Portugal is a fantastic place to learn. The water’s warm, the waves are good but not too big unless you go to the west coast. There’re regular sets – sorry – I keep lapsing into surfer-speak. Sets are…’
‘It’s OK. I know what sets are.’ Oh god. Was I rude just then? I didn’t mean to interrupt. She doesn’t seem to notice,
‘OK. What then?’
‘When you are reached the bottom of the stairs, turn left. Walk down the long corridor. You will pass the small hairdressers there. Big purple front with golden sardines. You cannot miss it. Walk past the hairdressers and take your first left turn. There you will see the sports activity reception desk. Someone there will help you.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ Just as I turn to leave, he gently touches my arm.
‘Er, miss. Do you mind very much if I say something to you?’
‘Of course not. What is it?’
He smiles. His eyes crinkle. ‘I have a granddaughter a little younger than you are. She is in her last year at school. I hope that when she is older, she will take me on holiday with her, like you are taking your grandfather. It is such a nice gesture.’
As you might imagine, I’m bloody speechless. By some miracle I manage to smile sweetly and force out ‘Thank you!’
I follow his instructions and in less than a minute I’m in the basement or lower ground floor, if you prefer. I can see the hairdressers ahead of me. The golden sardines painted on the front are about a foot long. They have huge, mad-looking eyes and each one holds various hairdressers’ implements.
I take the left turn and see the sports activity reception desk. A really tall, Gallic-looking guy in a wetsuit walks past me and smiles politely. Behind the desk is a pneumatic blonde wearing a burnt pink crop top which shows off her absolutely flat midriff and incidentally (I’m sure) accentuates her bust. This must be the instructor I saw on the beach this morning, who Tybalt said was an Australian or New Zealander and a real looker. She’s writing something in a book with one hand while tapping a computer keyboard with the other.
She’s a real looker all right. She’s seen me and greets me with a dazzling smile that almost blinds me with its heavenly radiance. How do people get their teeth that white?
‘Good afternoon, madam. I’m Janica. How may I help you?’
She’s Australian. She smiles again, and I can see her eyes quickly take in my hair and my boobs. She’s plainly a natural blonde and you can tell that her other assets have never been near a surgeon’s knife. No one in Harley Street would make a client/customer/whatever look like that. It’s just too damn jutting and provocative. No wonder Tybalt was perving over her.
A thought occurs to me; I’m like a fake version of this girl. The first two things a man would notice about either of us: the boobs and the blonde hair. Hers are real and mine are false.
‘Yes. I was thinking of getting some surfing lessons. One-to-one rather than in a group. I was hoping today and tomorrow, but I don’t know whether you have to book in advance or, er...’
If she hasn’t got anything, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I haven’t got a plan B. I suppose I’ll just have to bite the bullet and go shopping with Estelle. I could do with some more jewellery, anyway.
‘Have you surfed before, madam?’
I wish she’d stop calling me ‘madam’. It’s like I’m some middle-aged, well-to-do old bag who she has to be polite to as part of her job. Is that how I look to her? Do I look like someone you call ‘madam’? I certainly bloody hope not.
Have I surfed before? For a moment, I don’t know. Of course I haven’t. That’s why I’m here.
‘No. I never learned. I couldn’t swim when I was younger, so…’
‘Aw. Well you’re going to love it. Portugal is a fantastic place to learn. The water’s warm, the waves are good but not too big unless you go to the west coast. There’re regular sets – sorry – I keep lapsing into surfer-speak. Sets are…’
‘It’s OK. I know what sets are.’ Oh god. Was I rude just then? I didn’t mean to interrupt. She doesn’t seem to notice,
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