Read Online The Last Resort by Charlotte Oliver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Oliver
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said, trying to smile, but starting to feel a little overwhelmed. There were a lot of people here. I was struck by how badly I wanted to be alone.
“Hi,” said Randy, gravely. “Your eyes are like ladybugs.” He was American.
“You’ll have to be patient with him,” said Peter, “we’ve only just found out that he ate all of Declan’s magic mushrooms earlier.”
“Fucker,” shouted a skinny, dark-haired young sprite who was nursing two beers at the bar.
“Declan’s from Belfast,” said Peter apologetically. “Randy, didn’t you have something to say to Ava?”
“The ocean,” said Randy, “the seashells ,” and with that, he flung off his sarong and hurled his large, nude, hairy self into the pool. The fifteen rugby players, plus Sharon, exploded out of the water, screaming.
Peter sighed as he scooped up the sarong and folded it into a neat square. “Well, he wanted to say sorry for knocking you over at the gate. He was supposed to be on flashlight duty to let the new guests in. I think he’d already eaten the mushrooms by then. Drink?”
“OK,” I said weakly.
He led me off to the circular Hawaiian-themed bar that formed the centrepiece of the garden. Declan, the angry Ulsterman, nodded a hello and proceeded to insist on buying us several drinks. He tried valiantly to argue with Peter about it, seeming put out when Peter acquiesced immediately and politely.
Once I was installed on a barstool, Peter made his apologies and moved over to the pool to pull Randy out. It appeared that he’d got stuck in it, somehow.
“THE SHELLS!” he was screaming.
The Hideaway seemed to be a pretty place. The garden, which was large and covered with lush, soft grass, was dotted with lanterns, tiki-torches, and people snogging each other, and the deep dark of the blacked-out night made the stars seem incredibly bright. Someone was playing bongos in a corner, while his mates stood in a circle, passing a little glass pipe to one another. We were definitely in an exotic-beach-holiday zone.
The bar was at that pleasing, golden point of being full enough to be convivial, but not so full that the person next to you can grope you anonymously. An agreeable mix of surfer types, hippies, preppy gap-yearers and Silicon Valley-employed adventurers stood around, chugging cheap South African lager—the picture of happy international social relations, which everyone doubtless hoped would soon turn into happy international sexual relations.
They reminded me of Mia’s friends from uni—the adventurous ones, the ones who didn’t care what anyone thought of them, who were happy to drop out for three years to travel Guatemala solo, selling weed to get by.
Or of Jack’s friends. Who talked about horses and Verbier and how they all went to Morocco that year with the Gettys, and wasn’t it funny when Verity and Jemima poured all that champagne into the Jacuzzi after St-John knocked over the coke box? His friends who seemed to have a code of their own.
“You’re alright,” said Declan, breaking into my thoughts. “Might never happen,” he added, and handed me another beer.
“EEEEEE!” screamed a voice. It was Sharon, now next to me, in a towel. Declan was sizing her up with interest, but she didn’t notice. “Isn’t it GREAT here? Aren’t the people LOVELY? Isn’t the beer CHEAP?”
“I’m feeling really tired,” I said, trying to shake the sharp ring from my ears. “Where’s the room?”
“Oh,” she said blithely, “I thought we could take a bunk in the dormitory. Meet more people that way!”
My heart sank. “The dormitory?”
“Oh, keep your hair on, I’m only pulling your leg,” she shrieked, and collapsed into helpless laughter. Then she noticed I was in possession of two beers. “Property is theft,” she said, and chugged the full one in one go.
The room was a small chalet, hidden at the very back of the vast garden, behind a thicket of what I later learnt were milk-wood trees. They had
“Hi,” said Randy, gravely. “Your eyes are like ladybugs.” He was American.
“You’ll have to be patient with him,” said Peter, “we’ve only just found out that he ate all of Declan’s magic mushrooms earlier.”
“Fucker,” shouted a skinny, dark-haired young sprite who was nursing two beers at the bar.
“Declan’s from Belfast,” said Peter apologetically. “Randy, didn’t you have something to say to Ava?”
“The ocean,” said Randy, “the seashells ,” and with that, he flung off his sarong and hurled his large, nude, hairy self into the pool. The fifteen rugby players, plus Sharon, exploded out of the water, screaming.
Peter sighed as he scooped up the sarong and folded it into a neat square. “Well, he wanted to say sorry for knocking you over at the gate. He was supposed to be on flashlight duty to let the new guests in. I think he’d already eaten the mushrooms by then. Drink?”
“OK,” I said weakly.
He led me off to the circular Hawaiian-themed bar that formed the centrepiece of the garden. Declan, the angry Ulsterman, nodded a hello and proceeded to insist on buying us several drinks. He tried valiantly to argue with Peter about it, seeming put out when Peter acquiesced immediately and politely.
Once I was installed on a barstool, Peter made his apologies and moved over to the pool to pull Randy out. It appeared that he’d got stuck in it, somehow.
“THE SHELLS!” he was screaming.
The Hideaway seemed to be a pretty place. The garden, which was large and covered with lush, soft grass, was dotted with lanterns, tiki-torches, and people snogging each other, and the deep dark of the blacked-out night made the stars seem incredibly bright. Someone was playing bongos in a corner, while his mates stood in a circle, passing a little glass pipe to one another. We were definitely in an exotic-beach-holiday zone.
The bar was at that pleasing, golden point of being full enough to be convivial, but not so full that the person next to you can grope you anonymously. An agreeable mix of surfer types, hippies, preppy gap-yearers and Silicon Valley-employed adventurers stood around, chugging cheap South African lager—the picture of happy international social relations, which everyone doubtless hoped would soon turn into happy international sexual relations.
They reminded me of Mia’s friends from uni—the adventurous ones, the ones who didn’t care what anyone thought of them, who were happy to drop out for three years to travel Guatemala solo, selling weed to get by.
Or of Jack’s friends. Who talked about horses and Verbier and how they all went to Morocco that year with the Gettys, and wasn’t it funny when Verity and Jemima poured all that champagne into the Jacuzzi after St-John knocked over the coke box? His friends who seemed to have a code of their own.
“You’re alright,” said Declan, breaking into my thoughts. “Might never happen,” he added, and handed me another beer.
“EEEEEE!” screamed a voice. It was Sharon, now next to me, in a towel. Declan was sizing her up with interest, but she didn’t notice. “Isn’t it GREAT here? Aren’t the people LOVELY? Isn’t the beer CHEAP?”
“I’m feeling really tired,” I said, trying to shake the sharp ring from my ears. “Where’s the room?”
“Oh,” she said blithely, “I thought we could take a bunk in the dormitory. Meet more people that way!”
My heart sank. “The dormitory?”
“Oh, keep your hair on, I’m only pulling your leg,” she shrieked, and collapsed into helpless laughter. Then she noticed I was in possession of two beers. “Property is theft,” she said, and chugged the full one in one go.
The room was a small chalet, hidden at the very back of the vast garden, behind a thicket of what I later learnt were milk-wood trees. They had
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