Wish You Were Here Read online

  ‘Andy, mate,’ I said as calmly as I could, ‘apart from the obvious that I won’t go into right now, you know as well as I do that we can’t spend a week in Malia. Malia’s the unofficial capital of the Club 18–30 world. And in case you haven’t noticed, Andy, none of us is between the ages of eighteen and thirty.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Andy, ‘which is why I had to lie about our ages. So if anyone asks if you’re thirty, Tom’s twenty-nine and I’m twenty-eight next birthday.’

  I looked over at Tom to make sure that I wasn’t alone in thinking that this was the worst kind of bad news we could be hearing. Rather than being shocked, however, Tom apparently found the whole thing amusing.

  ‘You think this is funny?’

  ‘No,’ said Tom chuckling to himself as he looked at Andy. ‘I think this is what happens when you let McCormack book a holiday for you.’

  ‘Tom’s right,’ said Andy calmly. ‘This is what happens when you let me book a holiday for you. I mix things up. I make things happen. Think about it, Charlie. You had the best holiday of your entire life in Malia when you were twenty-five. What better way could there be of getting over Sarah than going back there and meeting someone else?’

  The ice cube game

  It all happened two years after Tom, Andy and I graduated from Sussex University and were living in a shared house in the Bevandean area of Brighton. At the time Tom was back at the university doing a post-graduate course, Andy was on the dole and I had got my first job in the lower echelons of the council’s Economic Development unit.

  Up until this point I’d never been on holiday with the two of them together. In my first year I’d spent a month Interrailing around Europe with Tom as he wasn’t a lying-on-a-beach-soaking-up-the-sun type; and in my second year I’d spent a week on Kos with Andy as he wasn’t a museum-and-monument type. And so, as far as the idea of the three of us going on holiday together went, it just never seemed likely to happen.

  But one summer evening Andy put forward the suggestion. While I was into the idea straight away I was sure Tom wouldn’t be. But I was wrong.

  ‘Sounds like a great idea,’ he said. ‘A week in the sun will give me the chance to catch up with all the engineering text books I’m supposed to have read by September . . . and have a few beers too.’ With that settled, we came up with a list of criteria for what we wanted from the holiday. The list, as far as I can remember, went something like this:

  1) Girls.

  2) Places to meet girls.

  3) Cheap alcohol.

  Andy volunteered to book the holiday because he had the most free time and the following day, over dinner, he pulled out a list of three resorts that he had managed – with the help of the girl he’d chatted up in Thomas Cook – to whittle down from a cast of thousands:

  1) Faliraki, Rhodes.

  2) San Antonio, lbiza.

  3) Malia, Crete.

  Whether it was because of the girl in Thomas Cook or because of his desperate need to go on holiday, Andy knew his stuff. He gave us a detailed presentation of not only the pros and cons of each resort, but each hotel and apartment block, too. Casting aside lbiza on the grounds that we suspected the type of girls who went there might possibly be a bit too trendy for guys like us, we narrowed our options down to Faliraki and Malia. We debated the issues as best we could. Tom pointed out that the flight and hotel package in Faliraki was a bit cheaper than the one in Malia. Andy countered by making the point that the girls on the Malia page of the holiday brochure seemed marginally more attractive. We put it to a vote and despite Tom’s earlier defence of Faliraki decided unanimously that Malia would be our destination.

  We were already having the best holiday on record when, after two days, I first noticed Sarah and her friends lying on sun-loungers by the side of the hotel swimming pool. She was absolutely amazing to look at. Shockingly so. And I was well aware that none of my tried and tested cheesy chat-up lines would have worked on her in a million years. A girl like Sarah required a special kind of approach. A one-off that would get me noticed without making me look like the sort of bloke from whom she’d run a mile. And so began my campaign . . . of smiling. That was it. Nothing else. I smiled when I passed her table as she and her friends had lunch by the pool; I smiled when I passed by her in the hotel’s reception; and if we were out for a drink in the evening and our two groups met in the street, I’d smile at her then too.

  I always gave her the same kind of smile too. Short, friendly, and not in the least bit suggestive, as though we were work colleagues or vague acquaintances. After the smile, I’d follow up with a quick exchange of eye contact and then look away. Initially she didn’t notice me but then gradually her friends picked up on what I was doing so she started to notice too. Soon it got to the stage where if I looked up to smile at her she’d be all ready to smile straight back at me. And that was when I knew I was right where I wanted to be: slap bang in the middle of her consciousness.

  Of course being in her consciousness wasn’t the ultimate aim of my campaign. What I needed was the opportunity to take things further. And it came in the form of a night out organised by the tour operators billed as: ‘The Club Fun Big Night Out’ – a gigantic pub crawl involving about forty of us from the hotel.

  Halfway through the night, having already consumed more flavoured vodka shots and luminous-coloured jello shots than would normally be advisable on an empty stomach, we were herded by the tour rep into a bar called Flashdance. Over his loudhailer the rep informed us that once we had downed the bar’s free strawberry-flavoured jello shots we would have a couple of rounds of The Ice Cube Game.

  The rules were as simple as they were off-putting to the sober. Two teams had to form a line behind each other in a ‘boy/girl’ fashion. The two people at the front of the line would then be handed a beer glass filled to the brim with ice cubes and instructed to pass as many ice cubes down the line as quickly as possible without using their hands. On realising that this so-called game was just a huge excuse for a free-for-all snogging session a number of the more attractive girl members of the pub crawl bailed out immediately. Sarah was one of them. I was just about to drop out myself as a fearsome-looking Welsh girl sidled up in front of me and grinned suggestively in my direction. In desperation I looked across at Sarah and realised she was already looking at me. She smiled. But this was a different smile to the others we had exchanged. Without saying a word she came and stood at the front of my queue. And without saying a word I squeezed out from behind the Welsh girl and – much to the chagrin of a short guy in glasses – slotted in the queue right behind Sarah.

  Once everybody was ready to begin the game the rep handed out the ice-cube-filled glasses, returned to the podium and blew furiously into the whistle around his neck. A commotion broke out. The whole bar was yelling, screaming and cheering. While the guy at the front of the queue next to us was already doing battle with the girl behind him, Sarah had yet to begin. Tipping the glass up to her glossed lips she slowly sucked a solitary ice cube into her mouth and then turned to face me with a wry grin on her face. I put my lips to hers and closed my eyes as the ice cube slid a cool trail from my mouth to hers. For a moment I wondered whether I had misread the situation but then her tongue darted quickly into my mouth after the ice cube and I knew that I wouldn’t be sharing any frozen water with anybody else.

  SUNDAY

  Long-stay car park blues

  ‘Over there by that green Range Rover!’ cried Andy.

  ‘Forget the Range Rover,’ said Tom. ‘Head for that silver people wagon on the other side.’

  ‘Sod it.’ I slammed on my brakes. ‘I’m just going to dump the car here and hope for the best. Because at this rate we really are going to miss the plane.’

  It was now late in the afternoon on what had so far already been an extremely long day. Following Andy’s revelation at The George that our holiday destination was to be Malia, he made things worse by badgering me into matching him drink for drink for the re
st of the evening. Once we’d left the pub, he dragged me into an off-licence and bought yet more alcohol to finish off back at the flat. Anytime I looked even vaguely as though I was going to stop drinking he’d simply harangue me into having another. And though we did end up having a great time (I hadn’t laughed so hard, sung so loudly or sworn quite so vociferously in a long time) I couldn’t help but wish that sometimes he would turn his personality down a couple of notches.

  At around three in the morning Tom declared that he was going to bed and although I wanted to go too, Andy held me captive for another hour until I could take no more and fell asleep on the carpet next to him. With no one to keep him company Andy allegedly did the only thing he could: he cracked open a few more beers, dug out a bunch of old Fast Show videos from a shelf in the hallway and stayed up by himself for another three hours until he finally succumbed to exhaustion.

  Thanks to our late night, none of us stirred until well after midday. And when we did wake up, Andy insisted that we stick to our plan, the first part of which was breakfast at Stomboli’s, a café in Bevandean that we used to frequent on a regular basis. It was comforting seeing the old place again with its fake wood-panelling wallpaper and cheery wipe-clean gingham table cloths. And even better to see that Georgiou the owner was still in charge. The only problem with our nostalgic late breakfast was that it dragged on far longer than the half an hour we had allotted for it. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d already packed my suitcase but of course I hadn’t. So once we got back to the flat I had no choice but to empty the contents of my wardrobe, chest of drawers and ironing pile into my suitcase and then randomly eject items of clothing until I could actually get the lid shut. Then I had just enough time to race around the flat making sure everything was safe and secure before finally squeezing all our cases into the back of my car and heading to the nearest petrol station. With a full tank of fuel I drove like the proverbial bat out of hell in the direction of the A23, thereby guaranteeing myself a sizeable number of points on my licence, if not a complete driving ban.

  ‘You worry too much,’ said Andy as we climbed out of the car and began unloading our luggage on to the tarmac. ‘I promise you that speed-camera did not go off.’

  ‘Of course it did,’ I replied. ‘I saw it flash.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said Andy. ‘Tom, tell him he’s wrong, will you?’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Tom. ‘It was a guaranteed licence-loser.’

  Still arguing I locked up the car and then we made our way to the shuttle-bus stop. The warmer weather that had opened August had gradually faded away as the month progressed and as I looked up at the sky I could see that the sun was fighting a losing battle with the scattered cloud above. Regardless of the restrained sunshine all three of us donned our sunglasses without comment.

  Just as I was beginning to believe that we might actually miss the flight, the shuttle-bus arrived. Even as we climbed on board, lodged our luggage in the space provided and took our seats my heart was racing. The thought of having to stay in England even one more day was bringing me out in cold sweats.

  As we finally approached the front of the airport it was clear that pretty much everyone in the world was going on holiday. There were taxi drivers, family members, friends and lovers all parked in the bus’s designated dropping-off zone. Right in front of us was a long white stretch limo that just screamed students with too much disposable income. Lo and behold a bunch of glamorous-looking types emerged from inside, spilling out on to the pavement. One of them pulled out a camera while the others congregated in front of the limo to have their photo taken. They all looked fresh-faced and energised, as though they were about to begin a new chapter of their lives. And despite myself I couldn’t help but make the connection between them and my twenty-five-year-old self, recalling my own youth and eternal optimism. On the outside we didn’t look all that much different; on the inside we couldn’t have been more dissimilar. ‘That’s what a decade does to you,’ I thought as I watched them laughing and joking. ‘It changes water into oil.’

  Strays

  Standing in the entrance to the departure lounge with Andy and Tom ahead of me and the electronic doors hovering expectantly on either side I became gripped by the conviction that I had forgotten something important. I wracked my brain trying to work out what the missing item might be, but it was difficult to concentrate against the barrage of announcements over the Tannoy – delayed flights, opening check-in desks, heightened security – it was all putting me off. I double-checked my passport and tickets but they were safely tucked away in the back pocket of my jeans and I even opened up my suitcase and checked that I had my ‘Death To the Pixies’ T-shirt. When I closed the case I recalled what or rather who was missing – Sarah. It had always been Sarah’s job to double-check that we had everything that we needed. That was why being here at the airport felt so odd. Without the safety-net of her presence, how could I be sure that I hadn’t left anything important behind?

  By the time I made my way over to the check-in desk there were only five minutes left until it closed but the queue was still some twenty to thirty people deep. Tom overheard something from the people in front of us about airport staff apologising over the late opening of the check-in desk that afternoon. We could finally relax. We’d been handed a reprieve.

  The queue in front of us was made up of every sort of person. Old folk with luggage trolleys packed right up to the rafters; families over three generations who all seemed to be talking at once; well-groomed young couples clearly taking their first joint holidays abroad; preening young men with salon tans and highlighted hair pouting and posing to their hearts’ content; scruffy-looking student types flirting with each other in a prelude to holiday foreplay; gangs of girls who looked as though they’d just stepped out of a nightclub; worried parents assisting their over-excited offspring with their luggage for their first holiday alone; rough-looking lads in baseball caps laughing and joking with each other; and then finally there was us: three relatively well-dressed but hardly stunning thirtysomething men suffering from varying degrees of hair loss. I’m sure we stood out a mile in our queue because we looked so incomplete – like stray dogs abandoned by their owners: grown men without their other halves.

  Gradually the queue whittled down to us and a bunch of lads in their late teens who had attempted to push in ahead of us only to be set straight by Andy. The woman at the check-in handed the return tickets, boarding cards and passports to Andy, assuming in the way that everybody did that he was our leader.

  ‘I’m going to get a paper,’ said Andy. ‘Anybody else want anything?’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Tom. ‘I want to see if I can get a guide book to Crete.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Andy. ‘All we’re going to do is eat, drink, and lie on a beach. You don’t need a guide book for that, do you?’

  ‘If you think I’m going to spend all week staring at the sun you’ve got another think coming, mate,’ said Tom flatly. He turned to me and winked. ‘You’ll come with me on a few trips won’t you, mate?’

  ‘I’m easy,’ I replied in a bid to keep the peace. ‘I’ll go anywhere with anyone.’

  As Andy and Tom made their way to the newsagent’s, I stood and watched a group of people who had obviously just returned from their holidays and had lost their way from the arrivals lounge. Some were wearing their market-stall-purchased straw hats as though they were still basking in the glow of the sun that they had long left behind. They looked relaxed and carefree, in stark contrast to the guys in the reflective yellow tops collecting the abandoned trolleys who looked miserable and hassled. Seeing these fresh-from-holiday people made me smile because what they had – their sunshine state of mind – was exactly what I wanted for myself. Maybe in seven days’ time I too wouldn’t feel quite so at odds with the world. Maybe I would return to Gatwick wearing clothing inappropriate for the non-existent British summer. Maybe I would come back changed somehow. Different.


  In the pub the night before Andy had promised me that this holiday would turn my life around. He promised laughter and new experiences. New stories to tell and new women to tell them to. Though at the time I’d found myself thinking instinctively, ‘Andy mate, that’s asking a lot of a cheap last-minute package holiday,’ but afterwards, as we walked home through the chilled Brighton night air I’d thought to myself, ‘Maybe he’s got a point after all. Everybody has expectations of holidays. We want them to restore us, entertain us and even find us new loves. So why should this holiday be any different?’

  On Andy and Tom’s return from the newsagent’s we made our way through to passport control, now with only a security check between us and the departure lounge. When Andy stepped through the metal detector he set off the alarm, as did Tom – they had both neglected to empty out money from their pockets – so as I took my turn to walk through the detector I convinced myself that I too would somehow set it off even though my pockets were empty. It was with no small relief that I made it through without a single electronic beep or flash to the other side. I was through. I was safe. There could be no going back without a great deal of difficulty. Now I was standing in the kingdom of discounted perfume and aftershave; of multiple packs of fags and litre bottles of booze. This wasn’t England any more. It was a shopper’s paradise.

  ‘Does anyone fancy a stroll around the shops?’ I asked as Andy located a row of seats in the lounge to use as a base while we waited for our flight number to be called.

  ‘No thanks,’ replied Andy. ‘I’m going to read my paper.’

  I looked over at Tom. ‘I’ll give it a miss, mate. There are a few things I’m quite keen to check out in my guide book.’

  Undeterred by my friends’ lack of consumerist urges, I did the rounds of the various high street names inside the departure lounge alone. And although I didn’t actually need anything at all I still managed to return from my sojourn with several packs of fruit pastilles, two bottles of mineral water and three books from Waterstone’s.