Georgios collects two towels and we follow a beach attendant to a pair of sun beds facing the sea. Lots of guests are already ensconced, and there’s a smell of sun cream in the air. Waves are washing gently onto the beach. This is fairly blissful, I have to admit.
Between them, the beach attendant and Georgios are laying out our towels with military precision.
“Bottled water.” Georgios sets a chiller on our table. “Should I open the cap for madame?”
“Don’t worry. Maybe I’ll have some later. Thanks so much, Georgios. That will be all for now. Thank you.” I sit down on a bed, and Ben takes the other. I kick off my flip-flops, peel off my caftan top, lean back, and close my eyes, hoping this will give the message to Georgios. A moment later a shadow crosses my eyelids and I open them. To my disbelief, Georgios is neatly straightening my flip-flops and folding up my caftan.
Is he planning to hang around with us all bloody day? I glance at Ben, who is clearly thinking the same thing.
As he catches me sitting up, Georgios leaps to attention.
“Madame wishes to swim? Madame wishes to cross the hot sand?” He proffers the flip-flops.
What?
OK, this is just stupid. These five-star hotels have gone way, way too far. Yes, I’m on holiday; yes, it’s nice to have some personal service. But that doesn’t make me suddenly incapable of laying out a towel or unscrewing a bottle cap or putting on my own flip-flops.
“No, thanks. What I’d really like is …” I try to think of some time-consuming challenge. “I’d like a freshly squeezed orange juice with honey drizzled in it. And some M&M’s. The brown ones only. Thank you so much, Georgios.”
“Madame.” To my relief, he bows and walks away.
“Brown M&M’s?” says Ben incredulously. “You diva.”
“I was trying to get rid of him!” I retort in an undertone. “Is he going to stalk us all day? Is that what a personal butler does?”
“God knows.” Ben seems distracted. He keeps eyeing my bikini top. Or, rather, the contents of my bikini top.
“Let me rub your sun cream in,” he says. “I’m not giving that job to the butler.”
“OK. Thanks.” I hand him the bottle and he squeezes a big dollop of cream onto his palm. As he starts to apply it, I hear him inhale sharply.
“Let me know if I’m too rough,” he murmurs. “Or not rough enough.”
“Er … Ben,” I whisper. “I meant my back. I don’t actually need help applying it to my cleavage.”
I don’t think Ben can hear, because he doesn’t stop. A nearby woman is giving us an odd look. Now Ben takes another dollop of sun cream and starts rubbing it under my bikini top. With both hands. He’s breathing very heavily. And now several people are looking.
“Ben!”
“Just being thorough,” he mumbles.
“Ben! Stop!” I jerk away. “Do my back.”
“Right.” He blinks a few times, his eyes unfocused.
“Maybe I should do it myself.” I take the bottle from him and start slathering it on my legs. “Do you want some? Ben?” I wave to get his attention, but he seems in a trance. Then suddenly he comes to.
“I’ve had an idea.”
“What kind of idea?” I say warily.
“A brilliant idea.”
He gets up and approaches a couple lying on sun beds nearby. I noticed them earlier, at breakfast. They both have red hair and I’m already worried about them burning in the sun.
“Hi, there.” Ben smiles charmingly down at the woman. “Enjoying your holiday? I’m Ben, by the way. We’ve just arrived.”
“Oh. Hi, there.” The woman has a slightly suspicious tone.
“Lovely hat.” He gestures at her head.
Lovely hat? It’s the most nondescript straw hat I’ve ever seen. What is he up to?
“Actually, I was wondering,” Ben carries on. “I’m in a bit of a bind. I’ve got a very important call to make and our room is out of action. Would you mind if I used yours? Just briefly. I’d pop up really briefly. With my wife,” he adds carelessly. “We’d be quick.”
The woman looks a bit flummoxed.
“A call?” she says.
“An important business call,” Ben says. “As I say, we’d be super quick. In and out.”
He glances at me and gives the tiniest of winks. I’d smile if I weren’t so transfixed with longing. A room. Oh God, we so need a room.…
“Darling?” The woman leans over and nudges her husband. “These people want to borrow our room.” The husband sits up and stares at Ben, shading his eyes against the sun. He’s older than his wife and is doing The Times’s crossword.
“Why on earth would you need to do that?”
“For a call,” says Ben. “A really quick business call.”
“Why can’t you use the conference center?”
“Not private enough,” says Ben without missing a beat. “This is a very confidential, discreet kind of call. I’d very much appreciate a secluded space.”
“But—”
“I’ll tell you what …” Ben hesitates. “Why don’t I give you a little gift for your trouble? Say, fifty quid?”
“What?” The husband sounds flabbergasted. “You want to pay us fifty quid just to use our room? Are you serious?”
“I’m sure the hotel would find you a room for nothing,” puts in the wife helpfully.
“They wouldn’t, OK?” Ben sounds a tad impatient. “We’ve tried. Which is why I’m asking you.”
“Fifty quid.” The husband puts down his crossword, frowning thoughtfully as though this is a new clue. “What—cash?”
“Cash, check, whatever you like. A credit on your room bill. Don’t care.”
“Wait a minute.” The husband jabs his finger at Ben as if he’s suddenly worked it all out. “Is this a scam? You run up hundreds of pounds on my phone bill and give me fifty quid for the pleasure?”
“No! I just want your room!”
“But there are so many other spaces.” The wife looks puzzled. “Why do you want our room? Why not a corner of the lobby? Why not—”
“Because I want to have sex in it, OK?” Ben explodes. I can see heads popping up everywhere under umbrellas. “I want to have sex,” he repeats more calmly. “With my wife. On my honeymoon. Is that too much to ask?”
“You want to have sex?” The wife draws herself away from Ben as though she might catch a disease. “On our bed?”
“It’s not your bed!” says Ben impatiently. “It’s a hotel bed. We can have the sheets changed. Or use the floor.” He turns to me as though for confirmation. “The floor would be OK, right?”
My entire face is prickling. I can’t believe he’s dragging me into this. I can’t believe he’s telling the whole beach we’re going to do it on the floor.
“Andrew!” The wife turns to her husband. “Say something!”
Andrew is silent, frowning for a moment—then looks up.
“Five hundred and not a penny less.”
“What?” Now it’s the wife’s turn to explode. “You have to be joking! Andrew, that’s our room and this is our honeymoon and we’re not having some strange couple going in it to do … anything.” She grabs the room card, which is lying on Andrew’s sun bed, and stuffs it down her swimsuit defiantly. “You’re sick.” She glowers at Ben. “You and your wife.”
Heads have turned all over the beach. Great.
“Fine,” says Ben at last. “Well, thank you for your time.”
As Ben is heading back to me, a large, hairy guy in tight swimming trunks leaps up from a nearby sun bed and taps Ben on the shoulder. Even from here I can smell his aftershave.
“Hey,” he says in a heavy Russian accent. “I have a room.”
“Oh, really?” Ben turns, interested.
“You, me, your wife, my new wife, Natalya—you want to make some fun?”