“Is it because you had sex three times?”
He looks at me. “No. It’s you. And the sex. But it’s mainly you. I really like spending time with you.”
“Thank you,” I say. But there’s something holding me back from saying anything more.
—
After another day of sleeping in the sun and then sleeping together after lunch, I suggest we get the tour book out. I can see George itching to get out of what he calls the compound. We take a taxi and then walk up Monkey Hill, buying bunches of bananas for a few baht. We climb up, hand in hand. If there’s a moment when we’re walking, we’re never not hand in hand. Even when it’s almost eighty-six degrees and my hand is warm, George is so tactile that it’s nice to be wanted and touched. He’s chivalrous and kind. My mum will love him. I glance up at him, his Ray-Bans glinting in the sun, his shirt unbuttoned a little further than usual, showing off his tanned chest. I’m not sure my dad will love him.
“What are your parents like?” I ask him, curiously.
He gives me a look. “They’re all right.”
“Are you close?” I ask.
“No. Are you with yours?”
I nod. “Yeah. I was thinking my mum would love you.”
He beams a white smile. “Mums always love me.”
“What about dads?” I inquire.
“Not at first. I’m a grower.”
“Like a piña colada?”
He laughs. “Yeah, exactly like a piña colada. First taste is always a bitwhat the hell?And then…everyone’s all right with it.”
I squeeze his hand. By the time we arrive at the monkeys, which are scampering across the road at quite a lick, I’m hot and tired but exhilarated. “There are monkeys everywhere,” I cry. “This is so mental!”
“I know. Hold out the bananas,” he says and hands me a bunch. I hold it out and a monkey darts at me, grabs it, and runs off. I watch it go, heading toward the trees, the simple act of lifting bananas from a tourist accomplished within a second. I look at my empty hand. “Well, that was that then.” But George is kneeling, holding out bananas one by one, as smaller monkeys approach him tentatively and then become braver as he pushes the fruit toward them. I watch him through all of this—watch how he justis.I take a picture of him, kneeling, feeding the monkeys. This is so surreal. And brilliant. And to think I didn’t even want to come on holiday.
I look away, toward the trees where monkeys are devouring bananas. Around us tourists depart or arrive and continue feeding them. Hundreds of monkeys dart around us and when we’ve finished we begin our stroll back down toward our waiting taxi. George holds my hand again and I feel I’m only really giving this 50 percent of my attention. I’m not devoting any part of my heart to it. Not yet. I will do as George says. I will take it one day at a time and see how it goes. We may get back to England in a few days and he might lose interest. I might lose interest. I’m not surewe’re right for each other, but we certainly fit together well. Here. Now. And I do like him.
We sleep together in my room. It’s the first night we’ve spent together. And when I wake up, his eyes flicker open and he smiles at me. We talk about where we see ourselves in a few years, which is heady conversation before coffee, and George makes us some in the room. I still see myself at the same company, if not in the same job. Fingers crossed, some kind of promotion creeps its way into my CV. George is content being a personal trainer, loves the job, can’t see himself doing anything else. He’s just so…easy. This is easy. Through no fault of his own, Davey was complicated. George is easy. I get it now.
We sit on my balcony, George in his boxers and me in my pajama shorts and tank top, my hair in a mess in a topknot. He leans forward to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and I think I’m genuinely quite happy at the moment. I can just about hear the waves lapping at the sand on the distant shore and the sun is high, bright. George goes to take a shower, but before he does, he flicks the kettle back on, makes me another coffee and brings it out to me.
“Wow, aren’t you the gentleman?” I say, before he nuzzles my ear and strolls toward the shower.
“This gentleman needs to buy more condoms,” he says over his shoulder as he walks toward the bathroom.
“I’m surprised you bought so few on holiday. I thought the main objective of this trip was for you to get laid many times.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“George!” I cry.
He laughs, turns back to me, leans against the doorway. “I’m only joking. I didn’t honestly expect that to happen. I mean, I’m bloody glad it did. But I’m as shocked as you.”
I suspect he’s fibbing, but I appreciate it nonetheless. There is a huge part of me that worries we really have ruined ourfriendship. I hope not. I also hope we’ve not ruined our holiday. But George is incredibly attractive, good in bed, and quite fun to be with. He turns, heads to the bathroom once again.
I reach for my phone. Miranda and I have been texting each other since I arrived in Thailand, but I’ve upped the ante, sending pictures of all the little towel-art I’ve found in my room and George’s each day. Yesterday’s was a baby elephant with huge ears. It went straight to Miranda, but she’s only just replied. I haven’t told her about George and me. It’s so casual between us that I’m deluding myself there’s nothing to tell.
I’ve zoomed in on this picture,Miranda says and she’s sent the image back to me, with red circles drawn around two items on the bedside table.
My face reddens, though there’s no one to see me. She’s drawn a circle around a box of condoms and George’s Ray-Bans. “Oh shit,” I say out loud.
