Read Online The Last Resort by Charlotte Oliver - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Oliver
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buzzer, and to our surprise, the door clicked open immediately.
We pushed to door ajar, gingerly. Bright light poured into our faces. After the long, dimly-lit car journey and the inky darkness of the street, we had to squint painfully. And the first sight that greeted us was an enormous figure barrelling straight towards us.
“Whereth’fuckavyou BEEEEEEN?” it bellowed, and Sharon and I yelped as the light disappeared and we were bowled over by a smelly, sweaty mass of flesh.
We scrambled around in the darkness for a few seconds before a new light appeared. It occurred to me that people were shining torches in our faces. Had we walked onto the set of a film or something? Strong language was exchanged and soon Sharon and I were being helped up.
“Jaysus, Randy, you take it too far!” said someone with an Irish accent.
“You’re crazy,” said someone with a South African accent, presumably to Randy.
I was still confused. Lights were shining in and out of my eyes. Music was playing, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I felt as if the top of my head had dissolved, and my brain was switching itself off. Little points of white flame flashed across my field of vision—fairy lights? It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten a single thing for more than 24 hours, unless a parade of G&Ts counted.
I had the impression that these swirling lights, this lurching sense that the ground had melted away underneath me, may be more serious than I’d first thought.
“I feel sick,” I said, and fainted.
~
I came to very slowly, aware of soft light and loud music. Where was I? Oh yes—the other side of the world.
I floated in half-consciousness for a while. It was nice, this limbo place. I thought of London, and it didn’t hurt.
Then, after a little bit, I realised someone was rubbing me on the shoulder—a proprietary gesture, protective, even, accompanied by a gentle voice asking me if I was alright, and did I need anything?
A man’s voice. My insides jumped; I was surprised by the feeling that I didn’t want to be touched by another man. I wanted my husband. Why had I left him? Why had I been so stupid ? Remembering the awful shacks that we’d seen, I immediately vowed to make my way straight back to the airport, just as soon as I was feeling less wobbly. It wasn’t too late to say I was sorry.
When I looked up, I was surprised to see the dimly-lit silhouette of a young, darker-skinned version of Matthew McConaughey, in slouchy shorts, shirtless. I could see the earnestness of his face—a look of wholesome innocence. The thin light that dribbled in through the French doors reflected off his well-muscled chest. He couldn’t have been any more delicious if he were made of chocolate.
I wanted to say yes, actually, I do need something. I could do, for example, with you serving me daiquiris, poolside, perhaps in a loincloth. You wouldn’t happen to have some grapes to dangle into my mouth too, while you’re at it? But there were to be no pelvic stirrings: my interest was purely aesthetic. I was a bit too exhausted in the romance department to muster up any physical enthusiasm.
“Feeling better?” he ventured, his broad hand still resting on my shoulder. I got up onto my elbows and looked through the gloom. I was in a darkened room, on a rather luxurious couch. Young Adonis was perched on the armrest. A few tea-lights burned in a row on the coffee table, with night-blooming jasmine resting tranquilly in a wide, shallow vase. Distantly, I could hear music; but why was it so dark?
“Where am I?”
“This is the Hibiscus Hideaway, and you’re in the sitting room because someone had to take care of you. You fainted—do you remember?”
“I think so,” I said, vaguely annoyed. Why had Sharon just left me here with a stranger? Then I scolded myself. After all, she could have refused to even get on the plane with me. At least she was here.
“I’m Peter. I manage the Hideaway. What’s your
We pushed to door ajar, gingerly. Bright light poured into our faces. After the long, dimly-lit car journey and the inky darkness of the street, we had to squint painfully. And the first sight that greeted us was an enormous figure barrelling straight towards us.
“Whereth’fuckavyou BEEEEEEN?” it bellowed, and Sharon and I yelped as the light disappeared and we were bowled over by a smelly, sweaty mass of flesh.
We scrambled around in the darkness for a few seconds before a new light appeared. It occurred to me that people were shining torches in our faces. Had we walked onto the set of a film or something? Strong language was exchanged and soon Sharon and I were being helped up.
“Jaysus, Randy, you take it too far!” said someone with an Irish accent.
“You’re crazy,” said someone with a South African accent, presumably to Randy.
I was still confused. Lights were shining in and out of my eyes. Music was playing, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I felt as if the top of my head had dissolved, and my brain was switching itself off. Little points of white flame flashed across my field of vision—fairy lights? It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten a single thing for more than 24 hours, unless a parade of G&Ts counted.
I had the impression that these swirling lights, this lurching sense that the ground had melted away underneath me, may be more serious than I’d first thought.
“I feel sick,” I said, and fainted.
~
I came to very slowly, aware of soft light and loud music. Where was I? Oh yes—the other side of the world.
I floated in half-consciousness for a while. It was nice, this limbo place. I thought of London, and it didn’t hurt.
Then, after a little bit, I realised someone was rubbing me on the shoulder—a proprietary gesture, protective, even, accompanied by a gentle voice asking me if I was alright, and did I need anything?
A man’s voice. My insides jumped; I was surprised by the feeling that I didn’t want to be touched by another man. I wanted my husband. Why had I left him? Why had I been so stupid ? Remembering the awful shacks that we’d seen, I immediately vowed to make my way straight back to the airport, just as soon as I was feeling less wobbly. It wasn’t too late to say I was sorry.
When I looked up, I was surprised to see the dimly-lit silhouette of a young, darker-skinned version of Matthew McConaughey, in slouchy shorts, shirtless. I could see the earnestness of his face—a look of wholesome innocence. The thin light that dribbled in through the French doors reflected off his well-muscled chest. He couldn’t have been any more delicious if he were made of chocolate.
I wanted to say yes, actually, I do need something. I could do, for example, with you serving me daiquiris, poolside, perhaps in a loincloth. You wouldn’t happen to have some grapes to dangle into my mouth too, while you’re at it? But there were to be no pelvic stirrings: my interest was purely aesthetic. I was a bit too exhausted in the romance department to muster up any physical enthusiasm.
“Feeling better?” he ventured, his broad hand still resting on my shoulder. I got up onto my elbows and looked through the gloom. I was in a darkened room, on a rather luxurious couch. Young Adonis was perched on the armrest. A few tea-lights burned in a row on the coffee table, with night-blooming jasmine resting tranquilly in a wide, shallow vase. Distantly, I could hear music; but why was it so dark?
“Where am I?”
“This is the Hibiscus Hideaway, and you’re in the sitting room because someone had to take care of you. You fainted—do you remember?”
“I think so,” I said, vaguely annoyed. Why had Sharon just left me here with a stranger? Then I scolded myself. After all, she could have refused to even get on the plane with me. At least she was here.
“I’m Peter. I manage the Hideaway. What’s your
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