flirtatiously with the swarthy Spaniards and the drunk, sunburned Brits. Clare had had her eye on a dark-haired Mancunian bloke in particular – they’d snogged for hours in a corner of the sweaty, pulsing club one night, and she was hoping for a rematch.
The following evening she and the girls were on their way out to their favourite nightclub, their heels clicking through the stone paths of the pool complex, the air still warm and scented with almond blossom. Then Clare spotted the body in the water.
It was about nine at night and the pool area was deserted by then, the white plastic sun loungers stacked up at one side to await tomorrow’s scantily clad bodies, a lone orange armband bobbing in the children’s pool, the rushing waterfall slide silenced and still. And there he was, a limp figure in the main pool, face-downwards.
‘Shit!’ Clare exclaimed, adrenalin pumping through her when she saw him. A single heartbeat later, she’d kicked off her shoes and instinctively dived in.
It was the first time she’d swum in six years, but her body remembered what to do. With three swift strokes she’d reached him and tried to flip him over, so that his head was out of the water. The man was a dead weight, fully dressed, unmoving, but the shock of the freezing water and the enormity of the situation lent her strength. She dimly registered Debbie and Maria screaming for help and then, after several increasingly desperate attempts, Clare managed to haul him over so that he was lying on his back. His eyes were shut; she couldn’t tell if he was breathing. And oh, he was so bloody heavy.
She towed him to the side, keeping his head above the water. His body was inert and his weight dragged her down. No way, something inside her said grimly; we are both getting out of this pool, and that’s that.
People came running to help, thank God. Diners from the restaurant, a waiter, some other men. They helped Clare heave him out onto the spongy green AstroTurf, and the waiter crouched down and tipped the man’s head back to administer CPR. Black spots were dancing before Clare’s eyes now; she was on the verge of a panic attack and her breath felt shallow. In the nick of time, a pair of strong hands grabbed her beneath her armpits and pulled her out, shivering and dripping wet onto the side of the pool, her silky black minidress clinging to her like a second skin. It had cost a bomb in River Island too, that dress, she remembered thinking at the time. Then someone put a blanket around her and she passed out.
The man survived, thanks to Clare’s instinctive bravery. It turned out he’d been drinking all day and had decided to take an impromptu dip, unknown to his mates. ‘You saved my life,’ he said shakily to Clare when she saw him later on in hospital. ‘You’ve got to let me take you out for dinner sometime, it’s the least I can do. I’m Steve, by the way.’
‘Clare,’ she’d replied.
You could look at his rescue as some kind of atonement for what had happened to Michael – that was what Debbie and Maria kept saying. Clare didn’t see it like that, though. One right didn’t cancel out a wrong. Didn’t come close.
Nonetheless, it was strange how fate brought people together. There had been hundreds of holidaymakers staying at the hotel that week – maybe even a thousand. Clare might never have met Steve if they hadn’t taken that particular route through the hotel that night; if Maria hadn’t done one of her last-minute outfit changes, making them ten minutes later than usual; if . . . if . . .
It could have turned out so differently. She might have hooked up with the Mancunian and be living up north with him and a clutch of flat-vowelled dark-haired children by now. She might even have fallen for one of the locals (that heroic waiter perhaps) and decided to settle in Gran Canaria for the rest of her life. But then of course she’d never have had Leila and Alex, and they were worth any amount of
The following evening she and the girls were on their way out to their favourite nightclub, their heels clicking through the stone paths of the pool complex, the air still warm and scented with almond blossom. Then Clare spotted the body in the water.
It was about nine at night and the pool area was deserted by then, the white plastic sun loungers stacked up at one side to await tomorrow’s scantily clad bodies, a lone orange armband bobbing in the children’s pool, the rushing waterfall slide silenced and still. And there he was, a limp figure in the main pool, face-downwards.
‘Shit!’ Clare exclaimed, adrenalin pumping through her when she saw him. A single heartbeat later, she’d kicked off her shoes and instinctively dived in.
It was the first time she’d swum in six years, but her body remembered what to do. With three swift strokes she’d reached him and tried to flip him over, so that his head was out of the water. The man was a dead weight, fully dressed, unmoving, but the shock of the freezing water and the enormity of the situation lent her strength. She dimly registered Debbie and Maria screaming for help and then, after several increasingly desperate attempts, Clare managed to haul him over so that he was lying on his back. His eyes were shut; she couldn’t tell if he was breathing. And oh, he was so bloody heavy.
She towed him to the side, keeping his head above the water. His body was inert and his weight dragged her down. No way, something inside her said grimly; we are both getting out of this pool, and that’s that.
People came running to help, thank God. Diners from the restaurant, a waiter, some other men. They helped Clare heave him out onto the spongy green AstroTurf, and the waiter crouched down and tipped the man’s head back to administer CPR. Black spots were dancing before Clare’s eyes now; she was on the verge of a panic attack and her breath felt shallow. In the nick of time, a pair of strong hands grabbed her beneath her armpits and pulled her out, shivering and dripping wet onto the side of the pool, her silky black minidress clinging to her like a second skin. It had cost a bomb in River Island too, that dress, she remembered thinking at the time. Then someone put a blanket around her and she passed out.
The man survived, thanks to Clare’s instinctive bravery. It turned out he’d been drinking all day and had decided to take an impromptu dip, unknown to his mates. ‘You saved my life,’ he said shakily to Clare when she saw him later on in hospital. ‘You’ve got to let me take you out for dinner sometime, it’s the least I can do. I’m Steve, by the way.’
‘Clare,’ she’d replied.
You could look at his rescue as some kind of atonement for what had happened to Michael – that was what Debbie and Maria kept saying. Clare didn’t see it like that, though. One right didn’t cancel out a wrong. Didn’t come close.
Nonetheless, it was strange how fate brought people together. There had been hundreds of holidaymakers staying at the hotel that week – maybe even a thousand. Clare might never have met Steve if they hadn’t taken that particular route through the hotel that night; if Maria hadn’t done one of her last-minute outfit changes, making them ten minutes later than usual; if . . . if . . .
It could have turned out so differently. She might have hooked up with the Mancunian and be living up north with him and a clutch of flat-vowelled dark-haired children by now. She might even have fallen for one of the locals (that heroic waiter perhaps) and decided to settle in Gran Canaria for the rest of her life. But then of course she’d never have had Leila and Alex, and they were worth any amount of
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