He crosses his arms and shakes his head. ‘Okay,’ I surrender. This is bad enough without attracting extra attention.
Following me into reception, he has the grace not to lay a hand on me, but it’s still a thousand times more awful because a few people I manage are drifting in, faces bewildered as they watch me heading out with Baz in my tracks.
The heat of mortification deepens, but I force a reassuring smile, ‘Just a bit of a mix-up. I’ll be back soon. Everyone keep on working hard.’ I feel like a criminal. Usually Baz’s services are for throwing out drunks or poor losers who’ve been parted from their cash because they don’t know when to stop gambling. But I’m neither of those. Still, as I step out the front doors, tears of frustration and anxiety scorching my eyes, I wonder if the second label is apt. Have I lost? Tony has already cost me so much. Respect, confidence in my abilities, and now, perhaps, my job. Am I like a gambling addict who doesn’t know when to quit?
More than anyone, I should know that in the end, the house always wins.
Now
There’s so much worse to come, my mind skitters away from it. Checking my mobile, I’m shocked to find it’s two in the morning. Throwing myself face down on the bed, I hold a pillow over my head and scream ‘argh’ into the mattress, long and loud. That finally seems to do the trick and I fall into oblivion.
DAY TWO
– Saturday –
By half five I’ve already woken three times and I decide to give up on sleep. Needing time to shake off a foul mood and bleary daze of exhaustion, I grab a black coffee from the machine in the corner of my room.
Pulling back the navy double-lined curtains, I gaze out of the window at the awakening city. Mopeds are zooming along the narrow roads in the dusk, and in the growing light I can make out the skyscrapers looming over other smaller but more architecturally compelling buildings. I know from the tourism magazine on the dresser that along the coast people from the mainly Catalan population are already making their way to the numerous textile factories, to the production lines that form the foundation for hopes that Barcelona will one day be a major fashion capital.
Padding to the other window, I squint down at the marina. The sea looks so peaceful with the first few rays of sunlight glimmering over it, so inviting, that with eyes gritty through lack of sleep I long for a refreshing swim. Setting the cup down, I flick through the hotel brochure. Fantastic – the heated indoor pool opens at six, no doubt for guests wanting an early-morning workout. I have more than enough time for a few laps before meeting Alex for breakfast. While I search for the swimwear I stuffed in my case at the last minute, I realise it’s only been twelve hours since I left London in the bitter cold. Feels more like twelve years.
I pull out the black bikini from my trip to Turkey with Jess a couple of years ago. It was such a great holiday – sunbathing, sightseeing, water sports, laughter, drinks by the bar. I was too busy to take a break in the six months of last year when I had a job, and I now regret it. All the experiences missed in favour of long hours and dedication … and look where I am now. No proper job, no money, no prospects. Shaking the maudlin thought off, I wash quickly and brush my teeth, tying my hair in a low ponytail. Yanking the bikini on, I turn to the mirror, frowning at how little it covers. There’s an obscene amount of rounded cleavage on display aided by the push-up top and the bottoms are cut ultra high on the hip. It’s one thing wearing it on a beach and another at the facilities of a posh hotel, but unfortunately I’m stuck with it. It’s not like I’ve got the money to buy an alternative from the discreet boutique tucked away in hotel reception.
Pulling on the white, luxury towelling robe from the back of the bathroom door, I push my feet into matching slippers and leave the room, key card safely in my pocket, yawning widely as I follow signs to the gym, spa and pool. Alex and I are in the penthouse suite on one side of the top floor, but the other side of it houses the leisure facilities in an atrium. Traipsing along a short corridor and through a series of white doors, I wave my key card over the inbuilt sensors and gasp at the white-marbled women’s changing rooms.
After a moment I wander out to the pool. The room is gorgeous; the domed glass ceiling overhead letting in the early-morning sun; lush palms and vivid purple flowering plants surrounding me and filling the air with a heady floral fragrance. It looks like I’m the first one here to enjoy it this morning. Kicking off my slippers and shrugging out of my robe, the heated air feels glorious on my skin. After a quick rinse under one of the poolside showers, I dive into the pool, looping through the blue in a U-shape before rising to the surface. It’s sheer bliss. The water is soft and warm and I feel brighter and happier already, the sharp tang of chlorine in my nose, my ponytail sticking wetly to my back.
Swimming to the edge, I curl my legs against the side, grab the rim of the pool and push away hard, doing laps on my back before flipping over into an efficient front crawl. Fifteen minutes later I start tiring, so finish off with a few leisurely laps before climbing out and reclining on the nearest lounger. The padded navy cushion is cosy and the rising sun warm through the glass above me. I’ll just dry off for a few minutes before going back to my room.
I jerk upright with a gasp when there’s a splash and drops of water splatter me. Looking around for the culprit, I see a dark shape moving effortlessly through the pool, but I can’t make out whether it’s a man or a woman. Well, as long as they don’t splash me again we’ll both be happy. Lying back down, my eyes drift shut. I’m aware of the moisture on my skin evaporating in the humid air. One more minute, just one and I’ll get going …
‘Charley. Charley!’
The voice intrudes and I fight to open my eyes, focusing slowly on the delicious face from my x-rated dream. Lifting a hand, I run my fingers over his cheekbone, trace a thumb over the rough stubble on his jaw and slide my palm slowly round the back of his neck. I smile drowsily, pulling him down toward me, lips parting. ‘Alex,’ I croak.
‘Bloody hell!’ Wrenching his head away, he grabs my hand and yanks me into a sitting position, hauling me out of my fuzzy dreamscape. ‘Charley, it’s time to wake up.’
Blinking the world into focus, I foggily realise what I’ve just done – touched Alex in a way that’s definitely not within working boundaries. Bright anger battles with dawning humiliation. Shit and double shit.
‘All right, I’m awake!’ I shake myself free, trying to ignore the flash of broad tanned chest with a sprinkling of hair, and the abs so defined they’re countable.
His comment resounds in my head. He’s right. It’s time to wake up, to the real world, where women who come onto colleagues uninvited ruin their professional reputations. Especially if they might have track records of that type of behaviour and the recipient is firmly against workplace relationships. Not that he knows about my track record yet but, when he finds out, me having grabbed him is hardly going to prove my innocence.
Irritation at myself and him ignites and sparks. Why was he so close to me when I was sleeping? And did he really have to yank me up like that?
‘Charley?’ he asks roughly.
Twisting on the lounger, unable to meet his eyes, I scramble over to my robe, hauling my arms through the sleeves and tying the belt with quick jerky movements. ‘I’m awake,’ I reiterate, ‘don’t worry.’ I bite the words out without turning, panic squeezing my windpipe. ‘See you in reception in a while.’
Bolting from the pool, I push through umpteen doors and jog down the corridor, not stopping until back in my bedroom. The next half an hour is hell. Shampooing my hair in a blistering shower, I scrub my body with exfoliator, trying to erase the embarrassing encounter with Alex along with the chlorine from my skin. All the while the mantra running through my head is don’t think, don’t think, do not dare to think.