7. Seven

“Ican’t believe you started with the chocolate fountain.”

It’s about ten minutes later, and Alexander Fox clearly doesn’t approve of the spoils of my first foray to the dinner buffet.

“I can’t believe you didn’t,” I reply, trying my best not to moan with pleasure as the chocolate-covered strawberry melts on my tongue. “Isn’t that the whole point of coming on holiday? To loosen up a little? Do things you wouldn’t necessarily do back home? Like starting with dessert and finishing with the main course? That’s if you even have a main course, and don’t just stick with the desserts?”

The truth is that I’m already regretting not just getting a normal starter. Because the chocolate strawberries are delicious, sure, but it’s just a bit weird to be eating them first, isn’t it? It’s not really me. It feels like a new personality I’m just trying on for size. It also feels like the kind of thing my new, spontaneous self would do, though, and I did come here to reinvent myself, so I decide to just go with it.

“It’s obviously the point for you,” says Alex, watching as I dip a dessert spoon into the milkshake I got from the drinks station and stir it with gusto. “Speaking of which, how’s that going for you, anyway? The ‘doing things you wouldn’t do back home’? You manage to track down Whatshisname yet?”

He says it casually, as if he’s just making polite conversation, but I hesitate before answering. To be totally honest, I’ve been dying to tell someone about my little trip to Jamie’s bar earlier — I even considered trying to find Rita after dinner, just for someone to talk to. I’m just not sure Alexander Fox is the best person to confide in, is all, given that Rita and Co. treat me like the intrepid adventurer I’m trying to become, and Alex just treats me like an annoying little sister who won’t accept that the Tooth Fairy isn’t real.

That’s when he isn’t staring at his phone, obviously, which is currently lying on the table beside him. Alex spots me looking at it and pointedly turns it face-down, so I can’t see the lengthy message he was typing into it when I arrived.

Touchy.

And weirdly secretive, for some reason.

“His name’s Jamie,” I tell him reluctantly, wondering what the message was about, and who he’s sending it to. “And, no, I haven’t seen him yet. I did go to his bar today, though,” I add, feeling ridiculously proud of this small step towards changing my life. “And I left my number for him. So, you know, that’s a start, I guess. One for the ‘something I wouldn’t do back home’ files. I don’t normally give men my phone number.”

(And by “I don’t normally” I mean “I have literally never done it in my life.” I always just wait for them to ask for it first. Come to think of it, that could be another reason I’m currently single.)

“Oh. Right. I see,” says Alex, looking surprised. “So you’re going through with it, then? This plan of yours?”

He didn’t think I’d do it. He didn’t think I had it in me.

And, okay, to be fair, I didn’t think I had it in me, either. But Alex Fox doesn’t need to know that.

“Yeah, ‘course,” I say nonchalantly, popping the last strawberry into my mouth and almost choking on it. “That’s why I came here, after all. Isn’t it?”

Alex starts to say something in response, but before he can get the words out, Emilio is back at our table, with a bottle of expensive-looking champagne and a huge, cheesy grin.

“For the bee-yoo-tiful couple,” he says, popping the cork with a flourish, and pouring it into the glasses on the table. “Compliments of the hotel.”

“Wow,” I say, surprised. “What is it with us that keeps making people want to give us free champagne? First the plane, now this!”

Alex glowers at the champagne flutes as if they’ve personally offended him.

“I’m going back up for my main course,” he says, pushing his plate (Containing the remains of a very grown-up, sensible starter of smoked salmon) away from him and abruptly standing up. “You coming?”

“Sure.”

I take a quick gulp of fizz, then follow him back to the buffet, taking as much time as possible to wander around the various stations in the hope that he’ll be almost done with his food and ready to leave by the time I sit down.

When I finally return to the table, though, I find Alex sitting there waiting for me, his food ignored in favor of his ever-present phone. Because he hasn’t noticed I’m here yet, his expression is unguarded for once, and I can’t help but notice that same sadness I saw in it back on the plane. Then he looks up and sees me, and, just like that, the barriers go back down.

He gets to his feet as I approach; an old-fashioned gesture of politeness that seems more in keeping with Julian and Alice’s generation than ours.

“You could just have started,” I say, putting my plate down. “You didn’t have to wait for me. We’re not actually dining together, you know; we just happen to be sitting at the same table.”

“That doesn’t seem very civilized,” he replies, waiting for me to sit down before he picks up his fork. “It’s not supposed to be a feeding trough, you know, although obviously some people do treat it that way.”

He looks pointedly at my plate.

I really hope that comment wasn’t directed at me.

“Now you’ve gone for a starter?” he says. “Do you do everything back-to-front, then?”

“Do you do everything by the book?” I retort, carefully tucking my napkin into the neckline of my dress, so I don’t spill food down it. “Or do you occasionally let yourself loosen up and actually enjoy yourself?”

This is pretty rich coming from me, given that this holiday is literally the first time I’ve loosened up in my life. But at least I’m trying. This guy still seems determined to act like he’s here against his will.

“What makes you think I’m not enjoying myself?” he says testily, sawing viciously at his steak. “I’m having a great time.”

“Um, well, let’s see. You never smile,” I say, holding up a hand so I can tick each item off on my fingers. “You don’t seem to even have a sense of humor. You’re on a party island, but you only drink water. You’re sad … I mean grumpy all the time. And you have a huge bruise on your face, which… what’s that about, by the way? You didn’t say.”

“I didn’t say because, unlike you, I don’t go around sharing my private business with check-in attendants and everyone else in earshot,” he answers, not bothering to look up from his plate. “And I like water. Water’s good for you. You should have some.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, suddenly realizing that he might have a drinking problem, or some other reason to keep refusing the champagne that’s constantly being pressed upon us. “There’s nothing wrong with water, obviously. I don’t really drink that much either, normally. It’s just that people keep on bringing us free bottles of champagne, and, well, I’m on holiday, so—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he says, as if he hasn’t spent the last few minutes expecting me to explain my dinner choices, so he can look down on me for them. “Like you said, we’re not dining together. We’re just sitting at the same table. And drinking the same champagne.”

He picks up his glass and holds it up in a sarcastic toast before taking a long sip.

Okay. So, not an alcoholic, then. Just a sarky bastard.

“You were telling me about your trip to see Whatshisface,” he reminds me, after another silence, which seems to stretch on forever. “Do you think he’ll call you?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I hope so. I’m not sure he’ll even remember me, though. We lived next door to each other, but we didn’t exactly spend a lot of time together. He was closer to my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah. Mark. He’s a year older than me. Do you have any siblings?”

“Two sisters,” he replies, taking another sip of his champagne. “Stop trying to change the subject, though. Back to you and Whatsit.”

“I’m just making polite conversation,” I insist. “To be civilized. So, two sisters, huh?” I narrow my eyes thoughtfully. “Wait, let me guess. You’re the oldest, right?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you’re bossy. And a bit uptight. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“And you’re the youngest, I’m guessing?” he counters. “I can tell because you’re super-dramatic, and you still believe in fairy tales.”

“Hey! That’s not true,” I protest, putting my cutlery down sharply. “I mean, it is true that I’m the youngest, yes. But I’m not that dramatic. And I don’t believe in fairy tales. I know that woman in the bar was just drunk. I wish I hadn’t mentioned her now.”

“That makes two of us, then,” he says ruefully, tipping the last of his champagne down his throat, then reaching for the bottle to refill our glasses.

“Anyway, it’s not the just the ‘Wise Old Crone’ thing,” he says, using his fingers to make scare quotes around the words. “It’s the fact that you came rushing out here on a whim, looking for the love of your life. That’s the fairy tale. It’s not just the idea of a fairy godmother guiding your hand; it’s the idea that you’re somehow destined to be with this guy. Don’t you think he’d have been in touch by now, if that was the case? Don’t you think there would have been some kind of sign — other than an old woman in a pub — that he was the one for you? Don’t you think it would’ve taken less than—” He looks up at the fairy lights above us, doing some quick calculations in his head — “Less than seventeen years, and a Wise Old Crone for the two of you to get together?”

He puts the champagne bottle back in the ice bucket, pushing it in so fiercely that some of the ice spills out.

“Whoa. What got your goat?” I snap, annoyed. “Way to prove you’re not bossy and uptight, Alex. Good one.”

I pick up my glass, wishing I’d had a stronger comeback than this one, but I’m so taken aback by the ferocity of his short speech that I’m surprised I can speak at all.

“We didn’t get together back then,” I tell him frostily, “because I was still growing into myself.”

“You were what?”

He’s surprised enough by this that his interest actually sounds genuine for once.

“I was growing into myself,” I repeat. “That’s what my mum always told me, anyway. I was… well, I was a bit of a late bloomer, okay? And Jamie was the most popular guy in the school. Everyone liked him. Like, if we’d been American, he’d have been the captain of the football team.”

“And, what, you’d have been the nerdy girl in glasses, who one day takes them off and everyone realizes how beautiful she was all along? Is that it?”

His lips curve upwards in what I’m assuming is supposed to be a smile, but which just makes me feel like he’s making fun of me.

“Laugh all you want,” I say. “It doesn’t bother me.”

I go back to my starter, feeling very much bothered.

The thing is, Alex is absolutely right. I did hope that one day Jamie would look up from the shoulders of his teammates and see me there in the bleachers, the girl of his dreams. And, okay, it was always unlikely — especially given that he didn’t actually play football, and our school didn’t even have bleachers — but that didn’t stop me hoping all the same.

In retrospect, I probably listened to a bit too much Taylor Swift in high school.

“I can just about understand you thinking that when you were a kid,” says Alex. “It’s the fact that you still think it’s going to happen now I can’t fathom.”

“Look,” I say, starting to lose my temper. “I get that you obviously pride yourself on being a fun-sucking dementor, who can’t rest until everyone’s as miserable as you are, but you don’t need to be so rude all the time, okay? For your information, I don’t think it’s going to happen now, okay? I’m not stupid. I did say Jamie was just an excuse, didn’t I? Just a catalyst for something bigger?”

Wait: did I say that, or did I just think it? Oh well, too late now…

Alex shrugs.

“All the popular kids in my year ended up either on drugs, or still living at home with their parents,” he says. “High school popularity isn’t necessarily a guarantee of future happiness, you know. And even if it was, what happens if it doesn’t work? What happens if this Jamie isn’t interested, and your life doesn’t change? What if it doesn’t work out? Then you’ll just be back where you started.”

I put my cutlery down, my appetite suddenly gone.

“I don’t know why you’re so invested in this,” I tell him. “It’s none of your business. You don’t even know me. Or Jamie. You have no idea whether it’s going to work out.”

“Most relationships don’t,” he says calmly, continuing to cut into his steak as if this is a perfectly normal conversation to be having with a stranger over dinner. “What are the statistics again? Isn’t it something like 50% of all marriages that end in divorce?”

“So? I’m not here to marry the guy,” I exclaim. “You’re making this sound like way more than it is. It’s honestly not that serious.”

“Which makes it even more ridiculous,” he counters. “Now you’ve dropped everything and put your livelihood at risk for… what? A holiday fling? Who does that?”

I glare across the table at him, and he scowls back, a lock of his still-damp hair falling over one eye — the one with the bruise — and somehow managing to make him look even sexier than he usually does.

He is, without a doubt, the most handsome man I’ve ever had dinner with.

It’s just a shame he has to be so utterly unbearable.

“Oh my God, you’re absolutely impossible,” I tell him, my voice rising in a way that will definitely make me cringe when I think about it later. “Yes, I made a rash decision, and I made it at a time when I was feeling low and vulnerable, and when everything seemed a bit pointless, really. But so what? At least I’m doing something to try to change the things I don’t like about my life. All you seem to be doing is sitting around looking miserable and judging people. Well, it’s not going to be me, okay? I’ll make sure I sit somewhere else tomorrow night. I’ll… I’ll sit with Julian and Alice. Or … or someone.”

I stand up, ready to storm off dramatically (Which isn’t a great way to prove him wrong on the whole ‘me being super-dramatic’ thing, but I was pretty much done with my food anyway…) only it turns out it wasn’t my napkin I tucked into my dress, but the tablecloth; and, when I turn to walk away, I drag the entire contents of the table with me, glasses and crockery cascading with an almighty crash to the paved surface of the terrace, and the remains of Alex’s half-eaten steak flying through the air to slap the bald-headed gentleman behind us on the back of the head.

There’s an audible gasp from the surrounding diners, who all immediately put down their cutlery, as if they’re getting ready to watch a show, and we’re the entertainment. From the other side of the terrace, a saxophonist suddenly starts playing, just to add to the ambiance.

I daren’t look in Alex’s direction, but, fortunately for me, Emilio comes to the rescue, flapping over to help untangle me from the tablecloth, while shrieking directions in Spanish to the rest of the waitstaff at the same time.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, addressing the terrace at large, and everyone on it as the tablecloth and I finally part ways. “I’m so sorry; I’ll… I’ll pay for all the food I’ve ruined,” I add, turning to Emilio. “And the plates. And the glasses. And—”

“It’s all-inclusive,” says Alex from behind me. “So you’ve already paid for it all. You’ve just chosen to throw it over everyone rather than eating it. Which seems very… you.”

“I didn’t choose to do it,” I tell him, feeling dangerously close to tears as I crouch down and start trying to gather up some of the broken pieces of crockery that are now decorating the terrace. “Obviously not.”

“No? This isn’t another one for your ‘things you wouldn’t do at home’ list, then?”

Is it me, or does he actually sound amused by this?

And, if so, trust Alexander Fox — The Man Who Laughs at Nothing — to only be amused by someone else’s misfortune.

“You’re not funny, you know,” I say furiously, straightening up, painfully aware of the fact that I still have an audience. “Especially considering that this is all your fault. But, hey, you found something else you can make fun of me for, so I guess your work here’s done, isn’t it?”

Alex’s forehead creases in something that might be concern, although you never really know with him.

“Hey,” he says, taking a step towards me. “Hey, look, I didn’t mean—”

“Save it,” I tell him, plucking my bag from the back of my chair and throwing it over my shoulder. “I think you’ve said enough for one day, don’t you?”

Before he can answer, I turn around with as much dignity as I can muster, and stalk off in what I hope is the direction of my room.

So much for me not being ‘dramatic’ then…