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Authors: Charlotte Oliver
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name?”
I sniffed, thinking how awful I must look—rumpled and tear-stained and generally miserable. “I’m Ava.”
“What a beautiful name. Nice to meet you.”
I didn’t really believe that it was actually nice to meet me, but at least he was trying to make me feel better. So he was gorgeous and polite.
“So you’re here with Sharon?” he asked eventually.
“Mm,” I said again.
“That’s nice. They’re in the pool, if you want to go outside and see her.”
“They?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, looking bashful. Such a Boy Scout. “She’s met up with a few friends, I think.” Then he handed me a plate that had something that smelled like cheese and ham. “Do you want a bite to eat? I’ve just made myself a sandwich, but you’re welcome to it.”
“Thanks,” I said, humbly taking the plate from him. My stomach had been rolled into a ball of the most appalling anxiety for so long—it must have been weeks since I’d had such an appetite. I munched, pathetically grateful, and started to feel hundreds of times better.
“Ketchup?” asked Peter, hopefully. “Mayonnaise? Perhaps a Coke? Some homemade lemonade?”
My stomach lurched. When last had I eaten mayonnaise? Jack didn’t allow any in the house. “You don’t have to—”
“Oh, no, I insist, it’s no trouble at all,” he said, not having any of it. “I’ll get you that Coke. Ice? Lemon?”
He scurried off. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of his bum: it was worth the effort. Was this what all the boys in South Africa were like?
It doesn’t matter, said a fierce, wounded voice in my mind. He’s not the one you want. And you know it .
Luckily, Peter was back quickly, clutching a Coke and another sandwich. “I’m sorry about the lights being off,” he said, as he chewed thoughtfully on his supper. “We always have a blackout between ten and one a.m.”
I laughed. Then I realised he was serious. “What? Every night?” I asked, incredulous.
“Oh no,” he said, laughing, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Just every second night. And we have a generator for the fridge, and a gas stove, so we’re OK.”
“Come on,” he said, while I was still reeling in shock (what about the hospitals? what if they forget to put the power back on? what the hell was I doing in the Third World?), “everyone’s in the pool already.”
And so they were. They were also, apparently, all very, very, very drunk. I couldn’t have been out for that long, surely? “AVAAAA,” Sharon roared, “YOU’RE AWAAAAAKE!”
The pool was tiny—more like a little dunking spot than a place to do some lengths. Nevertheless, about fifteen full-grown men were jammed into it, along with Sharon, in her best gold bikini. They were all looking intently at me, probably trying to size up if I was as much fun as my friend. Sadly not.
She was gesturing madly at me to come closer as she squeaked her way through the wet bodies toward me, holding a bottle of lager over her head. Gingerly, I approached. “Fuckin’ brill’yant, Aves,” she slurred when she got to me. “Fuckin’ beer’s 50p a bottle. Fuckin’ brill’yant,” she repeated, slapping me on the back in congratulations.
“Erm, thanks,” I said. She was too drunk to care whether I was feeling better or not. Which was fine with me; I didn’t feel like talking about it.
“No, no, no, no, no, none of that. No. Thank you ,” she insisted.
“OK,” I said. A burly, rugby-player type with a broken-looking nose was coming up behind her, gesturing to me to be quiet; it appeared that he was going to try to bite her on the arse, or something along those lines. I thought it best to turn away, lest I be blamed for the carnage that was about to ensue.
When I turned, I came face-to-chest with an enormous, sweating man, who was apparently wearing a sarong. And who looked vaguely familiar. Peter was standing beside him.
“Ava, I’d like you to meet Randy,” he said. “Randy, Ava.”
“Hi,” I
I sniffed, thinking how awful I must look—rumpled and tear-stained and generally miserable. “I’m Ava.”
“What a beautiful name. Nice to meet you.”
I didn’t really believe that it was actually nice to meet me, but at least he was trying to make me feel better. So he was gorgeous and polite.
“So you’re here with Sharon?” he asked eventually.
“Mm,” I said again.
“That’s nice. They’re in the pool, if you want to go outside and see her.”
“They?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, looking bashful. Such a Boy Scout. “She’s met up with a few friends, I think.” Then he handed me a plate that had something that smelled like cheese and ham. “Do you want a bite to eat? I’ve just made myself a sandwich, but you’re welcome to it.”
“Thanks,” I said, humbly taking the plate from him. My stomach had been rolled into a ball of the most appalling anxiety for so long—it must have been weeks since I’d had such an appetite. I munched, pathetically grateful, and started to feel hundreds of times better.
“Ketchup?” asked Peter, hopefully. “Mayonnaise? Perhaps a Coke? Some homemade lemonade?”
My stomach lurched. When last had I eaten mayonnaise? Jack didn’t allow any in the house. “You don’t have to—”
“Oh, no, I insist, it’s no trouble at all,” he said, not having any of it. “I’ll get you that Coke. Ice? Lemon?”
He scurried off. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of his bum: it was worth the effort. Was this what all the boys in South Africa were like?
It doesn’t matter, said a fierce, wounded voice in my mind. He’s not the one you want. And you know it .
Luckily, Peter was back quickly, clutching a Coke and another sandwich. “I’m sorry about the lights being off,” he said, as he chewed thoughtfully on his supper. “We always have a blackout between ten and one a.m.”
I laughed. Then I realised he was serious. “What? Every night?” I asked, incredulous.
“Oh no,” he said, laughing, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Just every second night. And we have a generator for the fridge, and a gas stove, so we’re OK.”
“Come on,” he said, while I was still reeling in shock (what about the hospitals? what if they forget to put the power back on? what the hell was I doing in the Third World?), “everyone’s in the pool already.”
And so they were. They were also, apparently, all very, very, very drunk. I couldn’t have been out for that long, surely? “AVAAAA,” Sharon roared, “YOU’RE AWAAAAAKE!”
The pool was tiny—more like a little dunking spot than a place to do some lengths. Nevertheless, about fifteen full-grown men were jammed into it, along with Sharon, in her best gold bikini. They were all looking intently at me, probably trying to size up if I was as much fun as my friend. Sadly not.
She was gesturing madly at me to come closer as she squeaked her way through the wet bodies toward me, holding a bottle of lager over her head. Gingerly, I approached. “Fuckin’ brill’yant, Aves,” she slurred when she got to me. “Fuckin’ beer’s 50p a bottle. Fuckin’ brill’yant,” she repeated, slapping me on the back in congratulations.
“Erm, thanks,” I said. She was too drunk to care whether I was feeling better or not. Which was fine with me; I didn’t feel like talking about it.
“No, no, no, no, no, none of that. No. Thank you ,” she insisted.
“OK,” I said. A burly, rugby-player type with a broken-looking nose was coming up behind her, gesturing to me to be quiet; it appeared that he was going to try to bite her on the arse, or something along those lines. I thought it best to turn away, lest I be blamed for the carnage that was about to ensue.
When I turned, I came face-to-chest with an enormous, sweating man, who was apparently wearing a sarong. And who looked vaguely familiar. Peter was standing beside him.
“Ava, I’d like you to meet Randy,” he said. “Randy, Ava.”
“Hi,” I
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