Zara Stoneley - The Holiday Swap

‘Flo, open this door, I’m standing here in my underwear.’

She added the olives and peanuts to the mix in the drawer, and hoped his gritty and oily extremities would cause him and the lovely Sarah a fair bit of discomfort for days to come. ‘I’ll give you friction!’

‘Flo, I didn’t even know she’d be in the same hotel.’

‘Oh, so that makes everything better. Tons better. How considerate.’

He’d urged her to shop that morning, which had seemed perfectly acceptable. Oli wasn’t really one to window shop, the odd breaks that they had enjoyed together had been ‘activity’ or ‘visiting ancient monuments’ but this holiday had, he’d said tucking her hair behind her ear, been for her.

How sweet. How considerate. What a load of bollocks.

Flo went back to the knicker drawer, pulled it out and emptied the entire contents into the one that held his t-shirts. The bastard. How could he do it?

He’d even bought her a red rose last night. The one she’d thought might be accompanied by a little jewellery box and a bent knee.

‘Flo, be fair, just let me talk to you.’

She opened the door a crack, aware that she now looked like a complete mad woman, her hair all over the place and her face, no doubt, bright pink.

‘What?’

‘It’s been all work and no play lately, I thought a break in your favourite place would be nice.’

‘Did you mean you remembered it was my favourite place, or hers?’ She paused as the realisation hit. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here, am I? That train ticket was for her.’

‘Flo, it was you that grabbed my phone.’

‘So all this is my fault? You’re blaming me for being here.’ Flo narrowed her eyes. ‘So,’ she put one hand on her hip, ‘what was it you’d organised for me?’

He looked blank.

‘When we were in the bar you said you’d arranged something,’ she paused, ‘something for me, that I’d love.’

‘Well, I arranged for you to talk to a guy who’s opening a new trendy fusion bar in Barcelona, so you could do a piece for the magazine. The guy is a genius, he—’

‘You bastard.’

Oli had a pained expression on his face. ‘It’s going to be an in-place, you’ve no idea how hard it was to get that interview.’

‘You’ve no idea how hard I want to hit you right now.’

He ignored her, put a hand on the door jamb, confident he’d be able to talk his way back inside.

‘Look it’s not you, it’s me.’

‘You loser.’ She stared open-mouthed. ‘That is the crappiest line ever, but you’re right. It is you. You really are the biggest dick on earth, aren’t you?’ Throwing all her weight at the door, Flo managed to slam it shut. There really was nothing else she could do. Then she threw all of her clothes into her case, and half of his out of the window. The half that hadn’t been caught up in the pre-dinner drinks-and-snacks saga.

It was quite a spectacular sight. A Parisian street, she decided had probably never seen so many Calvin Klein knickers, Armani shirts and designer jeans hooked in trees. The best bit, she decided, was seeing his pretentious Panama hat land in what he’d termed ‘cat-shit alley’ after treading in something unsavoury just after they’d arrived.

She stared for a moment, out of breath from all her exertions, then clutched the balcony rail and closed her eyes. She needed a drink, but she’d gone and thrown every last bit of alcohol in with his remaining clothes, and she wasn’t quite desperate enough to suck it out. Yet. Even her chocolate fix was in there.

Ringing reception, she very calmly reported a fire in room 406, and then waited until she heard Oli loudly declaring there was no such thing, and a member of staff insisting they had to check, before slipping out of room 405 and running down the stairs. She was out of the hotel, up the street, past the underwear-festooned trees, and round the corner before she stopped to draw breath.

It was when she realised she’d left the umbrella behind that she started to cry.

No way was she going to sit on a train, decided Flo. The last thing she wanted to be reminded of was the journey out here, when they had shared a romantic buffet laden with champagne, and all things nice, including some chocolates to die for. When her head had been in the clouds and she’d been wondering what kind of ring he’d chosen, and whether he’d go down on one knee.

Bastard.

Instead she headed for the airport, determined to make use of the company card one last time. Oh God, she gulped down the lump in her throat. Their whole lives were meshed together, two halves of a zip. And now it was stuck, with Sarah Rogers caught in the teeth. And when she finally got past that fluffy obstruction and undid it to the bottom she’d be well and truly stuffed.

No job, no man, no apartment if she didn’t work out the job bit. Fuck.

That was what happened when you relied on somebody. When you set up a business with them. When you loved them.

A little whimper escaped, despite the fact she was biting her lip. She had to get a grip. And had to get back to Barcelona as quickly, and unromantically, as she could.

Unfortunately it seemed the rest of the world, well Paris, didn’t appreciate how quickly she needed to exit. And how little she wanted to queue up behind loved-up couples.

‘Our next flight goes out in four hours, and it is full I’m afraid. Would you like to come back later and see if there are any no-shows?’ The woman behind the airline desk flashed a professional you’ve-got-no-hope smile.

‘No-shows sounds fantastic. I’ll wait.’ First in the queue sounded better.

‘We won’t know until boarding.’

‘Not a problem.’ What else did she have to do with her time?

‘Some people check in very late.’

Flo gritted her teeth and tried to keep the smile plastered to her face. ‘It’s fine.’ She could plan revenge. Or work out how she’d ever been desperate enough to let herself get into this situation. How had she not seen it coming?

Two strong cups of coffee and a rumbling tummy later she knew she had do something before she exploded or dissolved. It was touch and go either way. She had a sudden yearning for Tippermere, the village she’d grown up in. Normality.

Since her Spanish mother had decided to leave the UK and move back to Spain, and she’d followed, she’d spent her time in various places before finally settling for what had to look like an idyllic lifestyle. She had Oli, her own company (well the shared magazine with Oli), and the trendiest part of Barcelona to live in. But sometimes, she had to admit, it felt lonely.

Sometimes she yearned to put her wellies on and trudge through fields, to curl up in front of the fire with a mug of milk and a pile of cookies. Sometimes she just missed her childhood friends.

She flicked through the Facebook posts of her friends, Anna (who posted lots) and Daisy (who obviously had a far too busy real-life and didn’t post often at all). Pictures of them sharing a bottle of wine in the local pub, laughing, having fun. She felt a twinge of jealousy and a soft ache in her stomach that brought her to the verge of tears. She wanted to be there, to rush back – but she had to make a go of it here. It had been her choice. Life in Barcelona should be wonderful (everybody said so); she hadn’t even wanted to admit to herself until now that sometimes it was hard. That sometimes beneath all the perfect stuff there was a gaping hole, something missing.

Now she felt like toddler-Flo who wanted her comfort-blanket back.

Right now she needed a friend. An easy-going, non-judgemental friend – which Anna had always been given her dating and fashion disasters, which she was more than happy to own up to publicly. Unlike her, who just pretended everything was fabulous.