Foreign Affairs (49 page)

Twenty minutes later he triumphantly placed a platter each in front of them. Two stringy fatty rashers, a scut of a sausage, a watery fried egg and a spoonful of beans on a slice of toast
comprised ‘The Big English Breakfast.’

Pamela met Brenda’s disgusted gaze. ‘
Bon appétit
,’ she said drily as the waiter reappeared with two cups, from each of which dangled the string of a teabag.

By the time the courier eventually arrived, around half eleven, the pair of them were in such a temper they were ready to take the next flight home.

‘If you could just spend one more day here, there’ll be a studio available in Santa Lucia Apartments tomorrow.’ She smiled pleasantly.

‘No way!’ Brenda exploded. ‘We didn’t book to stay here. These apartments are much cheaper than the ones in Santa Lucia,’ she glared. ‘Which, I might remind
you, is what we paid for. You get us out of this kip or we’re suing for our money back.’

‘We’ve taken photographs of this place. We couldn’t even use the bathroom because it was infested with dreadful insects and we’ll use them as proof in the court
case,’ Pamela said coldly. The courier paled slightly.

‘OK, OK, leave it with me. I’ll make a phone call to Santa Lucia and see what they can do,’ she said placatingly.

‘Do that!’ Brenda retorted. If that smarmy little git of a travel agent thought he was going to get away with ripping them off he had another think coming. He’d picked the
wrong pair to tangle with. Brenda and Pamela weren’t going to meekly accept what was dished out to them.

‘That told her,’ Brenda whispered to her cousin as they listened to the courier blathering away in Spanish. Five minutes later she came back to them.

‘I’ve sorted it out,’ she said briskly. ‘They didn’t have a studio available so they’ve put you in a four-bed apartment. You’ll be beside your friends.
I’ll order a taxi for you and I’ll follow behind on my scooter.’

‘Thank you,’ Brenda said politely. But when the courier went back to the phone she winked at Pamela and said gleefully, ‘A four-bed apartment for just the two of us. It was
worth a night in this hole. Don’t let her see that we’re pleased though, in case she decides to put us back in a studio if one becomes available during the week.’

The Santa Lucia Apartments were about a mile away and it was a far superior apartment block. The apartment was clean, if simply decorated, and it was much nicer having a separate bedroom. The
bathroom housed no grotesque insects, and there were plenty of fluffy white towels and lots of loo paper. The other place had boasted no such luxuries.

‘We may ask you to move tomorrow, when a studio becomes available.’ The courier smiled ingratiatingly.

‘We’re not moving anywhere. Here we are and here we’ll stay,’ Brenda said firmly. ‘I’m not spending my holidays packing and unpacking. We’re not the
tribes of Israel, you know. It’s not our fault that your company overbooked. That’s your problem, I’m afraid.’

‘Fine, fine,’ the courier said hastily. ‘I’ll leave you to your unpacking.’

‘God, Brenda, I didn’t realize you could be such a tough cookie,’ giggled Pamela as they began to unpack their clothes.

‘Me neither,’ Brenda said ruefully. ‘It was just I felt so mad. What with the rain and everything. Well we might as well be miserable in a bit of comfort. At least the girls
are next door. It doesn’t sound like they’re up yet, the shutters aren’t even open.’

‘We’ll just unpack, have a shower, and a cup of tea. They should be up by then,’ Pamela suggested.

‘I’m dying for a shower, I’m ponging,’ Brenda remarked as she filled one of the drawers in the wardrobe with bikinis and T-shirts and hoped against hope that she’d
get the opportunity to wear them.

That night, the six of them went out on the razzle. It was still raining, but they didn’t care. They were going to have a good night and see what talent was about. After all, getting a tan
wasn’t the only reason one went on a foreign holiday, they assured each other, laughing as they climbed out of the taxi. If they couldn’t have sun, they were definitely going to have
fun.

Sitting at the bar, consuming Piña Coladas, they laughed and chatted and passed remarks on the talent. Predictably, Tara was the first to be asked to dance. She looked stunning in a pair
of tight white jeans and a red boob-tube.

Eve, with her cascading auburn locks and striking green eyes, was next to go. Pamela soon followed. Brenda, Julia and Joan sat at the table sipping their drinks watching the others dance around
the dance floor. I hope someone asks me, Brenda thought anxiously. It would be mortifying if all the others were asked to dance and she wasn’t. Maybe going on holidays with three glamour
pusses like Tara, Eve and Pamela wasn’t such a good idea after all. She cast a glance at Julia. She was sipping her drink morosely. She was wearing a sundress which didn’t really suit
her. It squashed her breasts up and made her look dumpy and all that white freckled bare skin was not appealing. At least I look a bit better than that, Brenda comforted herself. She was wearing
pale green Bermuda shorts and a loose white cotton top. If she’d had a tan, they would have looked much better on her. Mind, the teabag job she had done on her legs looked almost as good as a
tan. Joan didn’t look particularly happy either as she scanned the floor hoping she too would be asked to dance.

‘Dance pleezze.’ Brenda heard a foreign accent in the region of her left ear. Happily she turned to accept, but her smile faltered a little when she saw a small weedy man with a
scraggy moustache in front of her. Just her luck, she thought glumly. Still, a dance was a dance was a dance. Better than being left a wallflower. She walked out with him onto the dance floor.

‘
Sprechen Sie Deutsch?
’ he asked her and she knew from the guttural sounds that it wasn’t Spanish he was speaking.

‘
Deutsch, Deutsch
,’ he repeated.

‘
Non comprende
,’ Brenda answered, not sure whether she was speaking in French or Spanish.

‘Irlande,’ she added for good measure.

‘Aha! Aha!’ Her companion nodded knowledgeably. ‘British.’

‘No, no, Irlande, Irlande,’ Brenda repeated. What did he mean British when she’d just told him she was from Ireland? Did he need a geography lesson as well?

‘
Ich bin ein Deutscher
.’ He beamed and she noted that the state of his teeth left a lot to be desired. Something clicked.
Deutsch
. Wasn’t that German?

‘German?’ she asked brightly.

He nodded so enthusiastically she thought his head was going to fall off.

‘
Ich bin ein Deutscher. Ich bin ein Deutscher
.’

Bully for you, she thought dejectedly. So much for meeting a Spanish hunk. He gabbled away as they danced. And then he pulled her closer and ran his hands over her hips.

‘Stop that!’ Brenda said crossly, removing his hands. Two minutes later he was trying the same trick. She gave him an elbow in the ribs and pulled away from him. ‘Piss off, you
dirty little man, don’t think you’re going to maul me,’ she said angrily as the dance ended and she stalked back to their table.

‘What a little skunk,’ she growled to Julia and Joan. ‘Talk about Russian fingers and Roman hands.’ The music changed and the sound of Abba pulsated. ‘Come
on,’ she ordered the other pair. ‘Let’s boogie.’

Brenda loved dancing. Once the music inspired her she was completely uninhibited and danced to enjoy herself. It had been one of the greatest bonds she’d had with Eddie. She danced under
the swirling lights enjoying the beat and the atmosphere. When the next slow set came, reluctantly she left the floor. She could have danced for hours.

Tara was still dancing with her original partner. Pamela was dancing with someone different. Eve was at the table with Joan and Julia. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ She grinned at Brenda.

‘Yeah, are you?’ Brenda took a thirsty gulp of her San Miguel.

‘It’s a good disco, the talent’s not great though. The Copa down the road is supposed to be good too, we could go down there later,’ she suggested.

‘Sure. Let’s try everywhere,’ Brenda agreed. The next minute the amorous German was beside her.

‘Dance?’

‘Piss off, you.’ Brenda glowered. He got the message and turned to Julia.

‘Dance?’

‘No thank you,’ Julia said primly. He cast a hopeful eye in Joan’s direction.

‘Get lost, Romeo,’ Joan snorted. He slouched away to try his luck elsewhere.

‘Come on, girls, let’s try our luck in the Copa,’ Eve laughed. Tara and Pamela said they were happy enough where they were. The rest of them headed off to sample the delights
of the Copa.

They didn’t get home until the early hours. Tara and Pamela were still out, so Brenda left the light on in the hallway and fell into bed. She was fairly squiffy, although not as smashed as
Joan and Julia, who had had cocktail after cocktail. Brenda was glad she wasn’t sharing a bedroom with the two of them. Julia had already puked and it was a sure thing that Joan would too. It
had been a good night though, she thought drowsily, even if the weather was a disaster.

Brenda surfaced around half ten next morning. Pamela’s bed hadn’t been slept in. Where was she, Brenda wondered anxiously. Yawning, she strolled into the lounge and kitchenette area
and flung back the curtains. Sunshine streamed in through the windows. The sky was the bluest she had ever seen. The azure waters of the Mediterranean glittered like crystal. Brenda’s heart
lifted as she gazed on the scene. This was more like it, she thought with satisfaction. How bright the sunlight was, it dazzled the eye. And the colours! She’d never seen a sky that blue. She
wasn’t going to hang around, she decided, she was going to get out there fast. But where the hell was Pamela?

A muffled groan caused her to spin around in the direction of the sofa. Who the hell was that? Brenda’s eyes widened at the sight before her.

Chapter Forty-Four

‘Oooh,’ Brenda heard Pamela sigh. Mortified, she saw that her cousin was wrapped in the passionate embrace of a very tanned and very naked Spaniard. Brenda
retreated hastily to the bedroom.

She was stunned, and, she had to admit to herself, more than a bit shocked. Pamela was doing a very steady line at home. News of an engagement would not have come as a surprise to the families.
And here she was having a passionate fling with someone she’d met on her first night abroad.

Don’t be such a hypocrite, she argued with herself. You’ve gone on the pill in case the same thing happens to you. What are you feeling so offended about? Yeah but Pam’s almost
engaged to Sean. If she was still going with Eddie there was no way she’d consider having a foreign fling. In fact she probably wouldn’t even be on this holiday. It was a bit much that
she couldn’t even go into the kitchenette to make herself a cup of tea. Did Pamela expect her to just ignore the fact that they were having sex on the sofa and go about making her breakfast
as if they weren’t there? It was infuriating, to say the least. The sun was shining, the sea was begging her to swim in it, but her suntan lotions were in the small sideboard in the lounge
and because of Don Juan out on the sofa, she was trapped in the bloody bedroom! Was anything going to go right on this holiday?

‘I’m going out there,’ she muttered furiously after twenty minutes. The unmistakable sound of creaks and grunts and sighs had died down. From behind her bedroom door she could
hear the murmur of voices and then she heard the toilet door close. Maybe it was him. Maybe he’d leave after he’d been to the loo. He’d better!

Brenda heard the shower being turned on. The man, in heavily accented but good English, invited Pamela to join him. The bloody nerve of him. The unmitigated cheek, she sizzled indignantly. Did
he think he owned the apartment? It wasn’t fair! Brenda had paid the exact same amount as Pamela to share the apartment and now she couldn’t even have a shower because some gigolo was
in there. In high dudgeon, she pulled out drawers and slammed wardrobe doors shut as she gathered together her bikini and towel. By God she’d have it out with Miss Pamela later on. She
collected her lotions and Harold Robbins novel from the lounge, walked out onto the balcony, and slammed the French doors behind her.

Julia was sitting on the adjoining balcony having a cup of tea. She was wearing dark sunglasses and was still in her nightdress. ‘Morning, Bren. God, have I a hell of a hangover,’
she groaned. I’m not surprised, you little plonker, Brenda thought crossly. She hadn’t come on holidays to listen to Julia whingeing about her hangovers or to watch Pamela behaving like
a tart.

‘Do you think I could have a quick shower in your apartment? Ours is engaged.’

Julia arched an eyebrow. ‘But there’s only two of you, there’s four of us,’ she said, puzzled.

‘Look, Julia, Pamela’s in ours with some fella, they could be there for hours. The sun is shining and I want to go and sunbathe and I need a shower after being out on the town last
night. It will only take five minutes,’ she snapped.

‘Oh! Sure!’ Julia’s eyes were out on stalks. ‘Tara never came home at all, she phoned twenty minutes ago to say she’d met this hunk and stayed in his villa and
he’s taking her out in his speedboat today.’

‘Lucky her,’ Brenda said drily. Pamela obviously wasn’t the only one who’d scored last night. ‘Eve’s up at the pool already,’ Julia volunteered.

‘How’s Joan?’ Brenda enquired.

‘Dead to the world. She puked all over the hall when we got in last night, at least I made it to the loo.’ Julia rested her aching head on her palm. ‘I’m never drinking
again,’ she proclaimed. ‘If I came home like that after a night out Ma’d kick me out of the house, so I don’t drink much at home. Last night was the first time I ever really
got locked,’ she confessed. ‘I think I’ll go back to bed for a while. I feel awful.’

‘Some of those cocktails pack a mighty wallop, so go easy on them. And you shouldn’t mix your drinks. You should try and drink lots of water before you go to bed, it helps prevent a
hangover,’ Brenda advised kindly. She wasn’t going to make a pig of herself drinking. You could have hangovers at home, but you’d never get weather like this. Getting a great tan
was high on Brenda’s agenda.