‘It’s my fault you’re spending an inordinate amount of time travelling in a camper with your leg in a cast. The least I can do is offer refreshments.’
‘That is true,’ I tell him, and smile. He smiles back and for a moment our eyes are locked. ‘Cold drink?’ I say, turning my focus back onto my leg.
‘I’ll pop to the bar. I’ll order food at the same time.’ He gently lifts my injured leg onto the other chair and it’s a real relief to have it elevated.
‘Thanks.’
He returns with a cream-coloured drink in a tall, iced glass, seeming very pleased with himself. ‘Piña colada?’ he offers. ‘It’s virgin. I figured with all the meds…’
‘Perfect.’ The drink is the last thing I’d have chosen for myself, but it’s sweet and delicious and as I sip, I feel myselfrelax, despite the zero-alcohol content. He’s got himself a beer and for a while we simply sit in silence, enjoying the warm air on our cheeks, the sound of children splashing in the outdoor pool, watching people walk past with dogs on leads, or carrying baguettes back from the campsite shop.
Ten minutes on he disappears again and comes back with an enormous pizza box. ‘Sorry, they’re not exactly Michelin-starred here.’ He opens the box and the smell of warm, freshly baked pizza makes my stomach growl.
‘It’s perfect,’ I tell him as he passes me a piece.
Once we’ve eaten, I’m just about to ask him to grab my book when he disappears into the camper and comes out wearing a pair of enormous shorts. He’s topless and for a moment I don’t know where to look. Sure, I’ve seen the guy naked, but not for more than twenty years. It’s clearly his torso’s first outing this year, as his lower arms, neck and face are a completely different colour. But despite this, and the fact he’s got a teeny bit of a paunch, he’s pretty cute. Mind you, I’ve never been a fan of guys with perfectly honed gym-bods: I’d rather someone I can cuddle up to who’s not going to shame me for working my way through a pack of Pringles.
‘Sunbathing?’ I ask.
‘Thought I might go to the pool,’ he says. ‘Want to come?’
I give him a look.
‘Yes, I know, I realise you can’t actually swim. But there are sunloungers and ice creams and there’s a bit where kids aren’t allowed if you want to avoid getting splashed.’
Twenty minutes later, he’s settling me onto a sunlounger and adjusting the parasol for me. My holidays for the past two decades have involved Louis, and I’ve spent much of the time anticipating his needs – is he wearing sun cream? Will he be bored? Will he stray from the shallow end? Then, as he grew – should he be back by now? Has he had too much to drink? Is itreally humanly possible for a teenage boy to clear out a buffet single-handed?
Sometimes we’ve had a man with us – my longest relationship was with Stan, when I was still in my twenties and Louis was about seven. He came on two holidays with us, and I remember thinking what a catch he was, when he occasionally played in the pool with Louis or offered to read him a bedtime story.
But nobody’s actually adjusted my parasol, or worried about whetherI’mwearing sun cream, or checked whether I need anything for – well, probably since childhood, actually. And although I’m more than capable of looking after myself, even with this leg, it feels kind of nice that someone’s actually thinking of some of these things on my behalf.
Hal finishes applying his own sun cream then makes his way to the pool. There are four or five other adults in there; a couple swimming lengths and another few standing by the steps, treading water. He stretches his arms above his head and begins to get into a dive position when there’s a loud shout.
‘Non,monsieur!’ It’s a lifeguard, sporting the tiniest pair of Speedos I’ve ever seen, which would be fine if he looked anything like his colleague – who’s muscle-bound and tanned and about thirty years old – but isn’t such a pleasant sight on his fifty-something, blancmange-like frame. He waves a finger at Hal who seems completely baffled.
The lifeguard points to a sign. It’s one of those ‘no heavy petting, no dogs, no bombing’ signs you often see near swimming pools, only one of the little pictures shows a person in a baggy pair of shorts, with a line through them.
Hal walks over and they begin the kind of conversation that occurs when neither person can speak the other’s language fluently, so they turn to mime. Eventually it’s clear that Hal isbeing directed to the tiny boutique to buy, if the mime is to be believed, something a little tighter.
Red-faced, Hal makes his way out of the pool area, then disappears through the door of the cream-painted shop building next to the pool and returns clutching a small plastic bag. Then he comes over to me and slips the garment he’s bought out of it. It’s a tiny red swimming costume, almost a bikini bottom, and not something most blokes would be seen dead in.
‘Ooh,’ I say, ‘veryBaywatch.’
‘They only had these,’ he says sadly.
‘Well, put them on!’
He looks at me. ‘Are you serious? Do you think I can, you know, get away with them?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘If that lifeguard can pull them off, I’m sure you can too.’
‘Not sure I want to see him pulling them off,’ he quips.
‘Very funny. You know what I mean.’
‘No photos?’
I wave a finger. ‘No photos.’