He sighs. “But relationships—I seem to fail at that part.”
“I hear you,” I say, taking a long gulp of wine to finish my glass. The waiter is arriving with our next course—thank God the dishes are small—and the sommelier is hot on his heels with our accompanying glass of wine. “I’m getting sloshed,” I say, but I have no intention of refusing the wine. After our food and wine are presented with a flourish, I go on, “Well, you have good chat, and good date quality. Thisispretty decent. Also picnics on hills with champagne and meat-based products sound flipping awesome. Dog shit aside.”
He laughs and so do I.
“So I don’t know what you’re doing wrong.”
“I’m a good-time guy. I look great on a girl’s arm. I amtheperfect plus one for a wedding. But relationships…Ah, girls want more than I can offer. I’m not exactly rolling in cash, I work odd hours, sometimes I’m training clients until elevenP.M., and girls want a guy to ‘be there’ more than I am. I think if I was a heartsurgeon, they’d cope all right with my mad schedule, but eventually it all wears a bit thin and off they run.”
“Into the arms of a heart surgeon?” I ask.
“Ha, yes, the life-saving fuckers. Your turn,” he says. “Best date.”
I remember my date with Davey, the film night where he totally understood my strange fascination withA Room with a View.But this is personal, something I don’t want to share. It’s hard to describe how a video date was the best date I’ve actually had. It was Davey; it wasn’t necessarily what we were doing. Instead I look around and echo George’s words. “This is pretty decent.”
He smiles, raises his glass to me.
“To dog-poo-free dining,” I say and he laughs out loud and then repeats, “Dog-poo-free dining.”
The couple at the next table look over at us in horror.
—
I sleep so soundly that night, full of good food and more wine than I think I’ve ever had in my life, but the moment we’re on the plane to Phuket early the next morning I miraculously fall back asleep again. I feel like I only closed my eyes five minutes ago when the wheels hit the runway. George is asleep next to me or, rather, almostonme, as our dividing armrest is up and we’ve managed to curl ourselves into each other. Ordinarily this should feel embarrassing, but it doesn’t. I give him a little nudge and watch him swallow in his sleep, give a deep breath, and his eyes open ever so slightly. He’s not shaved and the stubble on his chin gives him that rugged look I’ve not seen on him before. He’s usually so clean-cut. I quite like it.
In the taxi to our beach hotel I look over at George, who’s studying the guidebook with concentration. I watch him as he scans, and I wait for it. “After we’ve checked in, do you want to—”
“No,” I cut in, lifting my sunglasses. “I don’t.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say,” he exclaims.
“I do,” I reply. “And no. We aren’t doing tourist things today. Today is about sun loungers and all-inclusive cocktails,” I command.
He laughs, closes his book. “Whatever you say, Gallagher.”
When we’ve checked in and I’ve appreciated the towels on my bed having been folded into elephant shapes, taken a picture, and sent it to Miranda, I go downstairs in my new neon-pink bikini and a kaftan. I’ve probably eaten far too much last night to make this bikini work, but I stroll down to the beach where George is waiting, having already sourced us sunbeds, towels, and drinks.
“A piña colada?” I query George’s drink choice as I slump onto my sun lounger, put down my book, and prepare to stay here all day. “But it’s only elevenA.M.”
“I’m following your all-inclusive holiday rules,” he says, “and giving your favorite drink a shot.” He sips, “Jesus, this is sweet. How can you drink it?”
“Too easily.” I’ve already drunk about half of it in one gulp, which is doing my faint hangover no good at all.
George takes another sip of his. “Yeah, it’s a grower. I’ll persevere.”
“Brave man,” I tease.
“We just going to do this all day?” he asks. “Lie here? Get brown? Eat? Drink? Swim?”
“Punishing, isn’t it?” I tease again and then stifle a scream as George throws a lump of ice from his drink onto my stomach, leaving sticky pineapple juice on my skin.
I throw the ice back at him, close my eyes, prepare to sleep again. I open my eyes, glance over at George, who’s still looking at me.
“You look good in that bikini, by the way,” he says casually.
“Thanks.” I look him up and down. He suits his muscles. Some men look too veiny and as if they’ve been blown up and stretched, but George looks hard in all the right places. What’s happening to me? I look away. “You look good too.”
“Have you put sun lotion on?” he asks as my eyes drift closed again.
