6. Six

Jamie Reynold’s bar is called The Rowdy Squirrel Bar Grill, and all I can say is I’m glad I didn’t give Alexander ‘Judgy Pants’ Fox that particular nugget of information yesterday, because there’s literally no way I can make it sound cool. Not even in my head. Probably not even in the head of my 13-year-old self, actually: and my 13-year-old self thought it was pretty cool when Chloe bedazzled her velour tracksuit and wore it to Arianna Morgan’s birthday party that time, so it’s not like she was a great arbiter of taste either.

The bar is tucked between a Chinese restaurant and Irish pub on a strip of land opposite the beach in Playa de las Americas, and I find it easily enough, thanks to a taxi driver called Carlos, and The Squirrel’s own Instagram account, which proudly proclaims it to be ‘the best nite spot in Tenerife South’.

There’s a sandwich board outside advertising a full English breakfast for 8 EUR, but even though my stomach’s still growling hungrily at me, I walk right past it, suddenly too overcome with nerves to make myself go in and sit down.

Because then he might see me.

I… really don’t want him to see me.

Back in high school, my tacticwith boys I liked was always to make sure they did not, under any circumstances, know I liked them. That way they didn’t ever ask me out, so I never had to go through the agony of actually having a boyfriend, and was free instead to indulge in my favorite hobby: crying over the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend.

It seemed to make sense at the time.

It doesn’t make much sense now, though, as an allegedly grown woman: which is why, once I’ve walked past the Chinese restaurant so many times that the waiter positioned outside has given up trying to hand me a menu, I take a seat at one of the tables outside the Irish bar instead, immediately holding the menu up in front of my face, and peering over the top, like a cartoon detective on a stakeout.

There.

That’ll do it.

Do what, though? That’s the question. The truth is, my drunken decision to change my life, one ancient regret at a time, was so out of character for me that I barely gave the idea time to land before I was jumping aboard it, telling myself it would be good for me to do something on impulse for once. My planning — if you can call it that — only got me as far as the airport, then on to the Hotel Martinez. After that, everything becomes a bit fuzzy around the edges — a bit like Chloe’s tracksuit, by the end of Ariana Morgan’s party, actually.

So I don’t know what I’m going to say to Jamie when I see him. What do you say to the high school crush you ditched your job and flew two thousand miles to see, though? Other than the truth, obviously, which, when you put it like that, makes it sound a bit like you’re here to boil his pet bunny?

You look like a stalker, says Alex’s voice from this morning in my head.

“Shut up, Alexander,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m just having a coffee. That’s all. Absolutely nothing stalker-ish about it.”

Just to prove it, I get the waiter’s attention and order a cappuccino, then lean back in my seat to drink it, keeping one eye on The Rowdy Squirrel as I watch the world go by. As it turns out, it’s a pretty good spot for people watching, too. The beach beside me is a busy one, and it’s lined, not just with restaurants and pubs, but with various other stores, selling things like pool toys, postcards (Do people still send postcards?) and garishly colored bikinis, for 15 euros each. Music booms out from at least three different bars at once, and every so often, someone stops by my table and tries to sell me a pair of knockoff designer sunglasses or a giant piece of cloth that can apparently be used as both a windbreak and a towel.

Amazing.

The sun is blisteringly hot, and the beachside promenade is so busy that by the time the smiley-eyed waiter brings me a second cappuccino, along with the ham and cheese toastie I finally succumbed to, it feels like almost everyone on the island must have walked past my table, from a group of men in lime-green mankinis who are clearly on a stag do, to a woman in sunglasses who I’m fairly certain is a nun. Or possibly a stripper: it’s honestly hard to tell.

I don’t see Jamie Reynolds, though.

Even though I sit there until the sun almost bakes me right into the pavement, and make sure The Rowdy Squirrel is in my line of sight the entire time, there’s no sign of the boy who once broke my heart; or, indeed, the older, but still recognizable, version of him whose photo is all over the bar’s Instagram page.

So I sit and watch the world pass by my table, and try not to think about how this is a pretty apt metaphor for my life, really — everyone out enjoying themselves while I sit there on the periphery, looking on. At one point, a young couple who seem to be on their honeymoon come and sit at the table next to mine, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as he pulls out a chair for her, then moves his own so he can sit as close to her as possible. The woman smiles up at him adoringly, and I frown into my coffee, trying to figure out what the weird feeling is in the pit of my stomach.

It’s loneliness, I realize at last. I’m lonely. Which is strange, really, because I’ve never really felt that before, even though I live on my own and haven’t had a boyfriend in six months. Okay, seven. And a half.

I always thought I was happy with my own company, though. Or content, at least. But as I sit there, watching other people go about their lives as if I’m watching a movie, it occurs to me that I’d rather be in the picture than just looking on.

Isn’t that why I came out here, though? So I could do something that would make me feel like I was finally a part of something, rather than being the perpetual hanger-on, like I was in that bar with Chloe at New Year’s Eve? Wasn’t I supposed to be doing something about that?

Yes. I was. And I’m determined to see it through, too; otherwise, I’ve just risked my job and humiliated myself in front of a plane full of people for nothing.

“I don’t suppose you know a guy called Jamie, do you?” I ask when Smiley Eyes finally brings me the bill. “From next door?”

“Jamie? Sure, I know Jamie. Everyone knows Jamie,” he grins, starting to clear the table. “You looking for him, then? How do you know him?”

“Oh. I, um, don’t really,” I admit, handing him some euros. “Not anymore. I knew him in high school, though. A long time ago now.”

“Ach, sure, it can’t be that long ago,” says Smiley Eyes, winking at me. “Do you want me to tell him you were looking for him? He’s not normally here for the lunch crowd, but he should be in tonight?”

“No, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’m sure I’ll catch up with him at some point. Thanks.”

I give him a quick smile and pick up my bag, ready to leave. I only get as far as the Chinese restaurant (again) though, before I realize I’m doing it again: I’m letting Old Summer take over.

Old Summer has the wheel: and given that she once got lost just trying to drive to work from her flat, that’s probably not the best idea, all things considered.

“Actually, on second thoughts,” I say, hurrying back to the table, which the waiter’s still busy clearing, “Maybe you could give him my number when you see him?”

Feeling very daring, I pluck a napkin off the table and borrow Smiley Eye’s pen to scrawl my name and phone number on it, before handing it over, feeling like this small act has somehow managed to turn me into a completely different person.

Who knew a simple paper napkin could wield so much power?

Buoyed by my newfound courage, I thank the waiter again, then turn and start walking in what I hope is the direction of the hotel.

Part one of my mission is complete. Now I just have to figure out what part 2 should be.

***

My decision to try to walk back to the hotel turns out to be a slightly optimistic one; although the promenade does, indeed, stretch all the way from Los Cristianos at one end to Costa Adeje, where my hotel is, at the other, it’s a much longer — and hotter — walk than I’d anticipated, and when I finally reach the gates of Hotel Martinez, I’m hot, sweaty, and with the start of what feels suspiciously like a sunburn on my scalp.

I’m also starving, having had nothing to eat all day but that single ham and cheese toastie earlier, so I jump into the shower, then put on my favorite little black dress, plus a quick swipe of red lipstick, before throwing my hair up in a banana clip and heading downstairs for my allocated dining slot.

The hotel restaurant is vast and bustling, with an apparently endless buffet table running down the center of it, and various different ‘stations’ off to either side, offering everything from steak cooked however you want it, to a selection of desserts grouped around a chocolate fountain, which comes complete with strawberries to dip.

The food looks amazing, but the clatter of cutlery and hum of voices is so loud I’m relieved when the waiter who greets me at the door takes a quick look at the list of names in front of him, then shows me to an outdoor seating area instead, on a terrace overlooking the sea.

Here it’s much quieter, with twinkling fairy lights strung between the palm trees to form a canopy of light over the tables, each of which has its own heat lamp to make sure the diners never have to be reminded even for a second of what the temperature might be like back home.

My allocated table is in a quiet corner next to a little garden that separates the terrace from the beach beyond it, and it would be absolutely perfect… if it wasn’t for the fact that when I reach it, I find a familiar, dementor-like figure already sitting there, buried in his phone, as usual.

So much for never having to see him again, then. I guess I’m going to have to add the hotel restaurant to my list of places to avoid if I don’t want to keep bumping into my newest arch nemesis every few minutes.

“Oh, there must be some mistake,” I tell the waiter — whose name-badge identifies him as Emilio — digging my heels firmly into the ground before he can take me any closer to the man who recently accused me of stalking him. “This table’s already taken.”

“Yes, by Mr. Fox?” says Emilio, looking confused. “He sit here…” He gestures towards Alex, who looks every bit as thrilled to see me as I am to see him. “And madam sits here.” He pulls out the seat on the other side of the small table with a flourish and steps back to allow me to sit down.

“Er, no, I don’t think so,” says Alex, who’s wearing a white linen shirt, and looks like he’s just got out of the shower, with his damp hair slicked back from his tanned forehead. “This is my table. Mine.”

He jabs a thumb at his own chest, and I close my eyes, desperately trying not to remember what it looked like with water droplets cascading down it as he climbed out of the pool this morning.

“Yes. And hers,” says Emilio helpfully. “You share, yes?”

“No!” Alex and I say in unison, finding something to agree on at last.

“No chance,” I add for good measure. “Look, I don’t care where I sit. Just as long as it’s not next to … well, him.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” replies Alex, his brow furrowing in a glare made even more alarming by the bruise on his face.

“Look, you must have another table,” I say, turning to Emilio. “Can’t you just move one of us? Please?” I add, beseechingly.

“Ah!” says Emilio, understanding at last. “You want me to move one of you? To another table, yes?”

“Yes!” we chorus, relieved.

“No,” says Emilio, sadly. “No possible. All tables full.”

I turn and look around the terrace. Sure enough, every table I see is already filled with hungry holidaymakers; and from what I recall from my brief glimpse of the restaurant, it was the same in there, too.

“It’s okay,” I say, resigning myself to whatever the room service menu has to offer. “I’m not that hungry anyway. I think I’ll just go back to my room and have an early night.”

I yawn theatrically to prove what a great idea this is.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” mutters Alex, rolling his eyes. “It’s not even dark yet, Summer. You can’t possibly spend the rest of the night sitting in your room.”

He sighs heavily, then leans forward and pushes the second chair out from the table.

“Come on,” he says. “You managed to put up with me for almost four hours on the flight here; I’m sure you can survive one more hour while you have something to eat.”

I hesitate, not completely convinced this is true.

“It’s a buffet,” Alex says. “We’ll be up and down so often we’ll barely even cross paths.”

I take a cautious step closer to the table.

“There’s a chocolate fountain,” he adds, with what looks suspiciously like the hint of a grin. “You can have as much as you want.”

“Okay, done,” I say, dropping gratefully into the chair. “You had me at ‘buffet’. The chocolate fountain is just a bonus.”

The corners of his mouth inch upwards. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s trying to smile. It reminds me of a video I once saw of a newborn foal struggling to stand up.

I smile back, deciding I may as well try to make the best of this. It’s only an hour, after all. How bad can it be?

“Right,” I say, pushing my chair back after an awkward pause, during which we both sit there silently, neither of us knowing what to say next. “Let’s get this over with, then.”