vigorously, sobbing. One of her tears lands in the corner of my eye. ‘No. I’m not the sort of person who stays in a five-star hotel.’
‘All right, forget it.’
‘I can’t do it. I wouldn’t know what to do.’
‘You’d do exactly the same—’
‘No! I can’t!’
‘Fine. It doesn’t matter. We’ll stay here. Lauren? I’m sorry, just . . . pretend I never said anything. This hotel will be fine.’
She wipes her eyes, mollified. ‘It looks all right to me,’ she says, assessing it through the coach window. ‘I hope it’s got something I can eat. I’m starving. Haven’t eaten a thing since six o’clock last night. I’ve not been able to face the thought of food.’
‘You were nervous,’ I tell her. ‘About whatever you had to do today, about lying to Jason. Now you’re on your way home, you’re starting to feel better. And hungrier.’
She gives me an odd look, then nods. Barely.
What illicit reason could a twenty-three-year-old care assistant have for needing to come to Germany for the day? A lover? Wouldn’t she have wanted to stay at least one night, if so? Perhaps she and Jason are one of those couples that never spend the night apart. Sean would approve. He ought to move in with them and form a threesome; they’d probably annoy him less than I do.
Eventually, there’s a gap in the line of moving people filing off the coach. ‘Come on,’ I say. My legs buckle when I try to stand up.
‘I can’t feel my arse, I’ve been sat on it for so long,’ Lauren announces. She stands, pulls off her silver bullet belt and stuffs it in her bag. Her jeans slide down to reveal sharp hip bones, a red thong and a tattoo of some parallel wavy lines. I don’t know if this is purely decorative or if it means something to Lauren; to me it says, ‘This accommodation has a swimming pool’.
Sean would claim this is my fault, not the tattoo’s: I spend a disproportionate amount of time surfing where-to-stay websites because my work involves so much gadding, swanning and gallivanting – three words Sean prefers to the more simple ‘travelling’. For Christmas last year, I bought myself an antique gold St Christopher medal that I wear on a thin white-gold chain around my neck whenever I swan or gad, even though I am not at all religious. I needed something to make me feel better about all the time I spend surrounded by the flecked and speckled wall and ceiling tiles of airports, so I developed a relationship with St Christopher that involved him accepting my atheism and me redefining his role a little: the patron saint of gallivanters with whiny selfish partners.
Lauren and I are among the last to get off the coach. Two other coaches are parked alongside it: limping, yawning people spill out of all three vehicles. On our way into the hotel, we pass a crying woman who is holding up a very old man. ‘Come on, Dad,’ she says. ‘We’re here now. You’ll be in bed soon.’
‘Look at them, poor sods,’ Lauren says to me. ‘It’s terrible, what those bastards have done to us tonight. They fucking owe us, big time. I haven’t got a toothbrush with me or anything.’
‘The hotel should have some,’ I say.
Though probably not enough for all of us.
I try not to think about the top drawer of my bedside cabinet that contains at least seven unused miniature toothbrush-and-toothpaste sets, collected from various airlines’ business-class goody bags over the years. Next time I travel – in six days’ time, another dawn-cracking day trip, to Barcelona – I’ll bring them all with me, just in case my flight is delayed overnight and six unstable dimwits decide to appoint me as their primary carer.
‘Why would a hotel have toothbrushes?’ Lauren asks, looking puzzled. ‘Don’t people normally bring their own?’
St Christopher? Do you want to field this one?
The hotel reception area is packed. Lauren and I can only just get in. We’re standing at the edge of the built-in brown welcome
‘All right, forget it.’
‘I can’t do it. I wouldn’t know what to do.’
‘You’d do exactly the same—’
‘No! I can’t!’
‘Fine. It doesn’t matter. We’ll stay here. Lauren? I’m sorry, just . . . pretend I never said anything. This hotel will be fine.’
She wipes her eyes, mollified. ‘It looks all right to me,’ she says, assessing it through the coach window. ‘I hope it’s got something I can eat. I’m starving. Haven’t eaten a thing since six o’clock last night. I’ve not been able to face the thought of food.’
‘You were nervous,’ I tell her. ‘About whatever you had to do today, about lying to Jason. Now you’re on your way home, you’re starting to feel better. And hungrier.’
She gives me an odd look, then nods. Barely.
What illicit reason could a twenty-three-year-old care assistant have for needing to come to Germany for the day? A lover? Wouldn’t she have wanted to stay at least one night, if so? Perhaps she and Jason are one of those couples that never spend the night apart. Sean would approve. He ought to move in with them and form a threesome; they’d probably annoy him less than I do.
Eventually, there’s a gap in the line of moving people filing off the coach. ‘Come on,’ I say. My legs buckle when I try to stand up.
‘I can’t feel my arse, I’ve been sat on it for so long,’ Lauren announces. She stands, pulls off her silver bullet belt and stuffs it in her bag. Her jeans slide down to reveal sharp hip bones, a red thong and a tattoo of some parallel wavy lines. I don’t know if this is purely decorative or if it means something to Lauren; to me it says, ‘This accommodation has a swimming pool’.
Sean would claim this is my fault, not the tattoo’s: I spend a disproportionate amount of time surfing where-to-stay websites because my work involves so much gadding, swanning and gallivanting – three words Sean prefers to the more simple ‘travelling’. For Christmas last year, I bought myself an antique gold St Christopher medal that I wear on a thin white-gold chain around my neck whenever I swan or gad, even though I am not at all religious. I needed something to make me feel better about all the time I spend surrounded by the flecked and speckled wall and ceiling tiles of airports, so I developed a relationship with St Christopher that involved him accepting my atheism and me redefining his role a little: the patron saint of gallivanters with whiny selfish partners.
Lauren and I are among the last to get off the coach. Two other coaches are parked alongside it: limping, yawning people spill out of all three vehicles. On our way into the hotel, we pass a crying woman who is holding up a very old man. ‘Come on, Dad,’ she says. ‘We’re here now. You’ll be in bed soon.’
‘Look at them, poor sods,’ Lauren says to me. ‘It’s terrible, what those bastards have done to us tonight. They fucking owe us, big time. I haven’t got a toothbrush with me or anything.’
‘The hotel should have some,’ I say.
Though probably not enough for all of us.
I try not to think about the top drawer of my bedside cabinet that contains at least seven unused miniature toothbrush-and-toothpaste sets, collected from various airlines’ business-class goody bags over the years. Next time I travel – in six days’ time, another dawn-cracking day trip, to Barcelona – I’ll bring them all with me, just in case my flight is delayed overnight and six unstable dimwits decide to appoint me as their primary carer.
‘Why would a hotel have toothbrushes?’ Lauren asks, looking puzzled. ‘Don’t people normally bring their own?’
St Christopher? Do you want to field this one?
The hotel reception area is packed. Lauren and I can only just get in. We’re standing at the edge of the built-in brown welcome
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