Read Online Wish You Were Here by Mike Gayle - Free Book Online

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜But it’s two o’clock in the—’ Tom stopped as Steve-the-barman returned.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Which teams do you follow?’ asked Steve.
    â€˜Arsenal,’ said Tom. ‘But I don’t go to the matches.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I only ask because . . . well, because we don’t tend to get many people your age here.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ replied Andy shiftily. ‘I’m twenty-eight.’
    Steve-the-barman chuckled heartily. ‘If you say so, mate.’
    â€˜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