Janet froze.
A heaped teaspoon of pink mousse hovered inches from her gaping mouth.
She couldn’t believe what she’d overheard from Mr Combover.
“Natalie, how were the towels arranged on your bed today?” she asked her puzzled daughter.
“Um, in a swan.”
“And yesterday?”
“As a heart, I think,” Natalie replied, exchanging confused glances with her boyfriend and siblings as they headed for the glass-bottom-boat tour.
“Graham, next time we dine ‘economy’ make sure we sit near Mr Combover.”
Graham didn’t know why they had to sit next to the guest who was borrowing wisps of hair from four corners of his scalp in a failed bid to cover his bald patch. He did know, however, that he had to make an effort if this escape was to achieve its goal of injecting romance and passion into their 25-year-old marriage.
He showered and shaved in readiness for the private wine tasting, but when he stepped out of the bathroom in silk gown and slippers, he was aghast. Janet had cornered the housekeeper, one of her hands on the towel elephants and the other offering a wad of US Dollars.
“Presidential Suite, Presidential Suite?” Janet asked with desperate insistence, pointing at the towels. The perplexed housekeeper just left with the cash.
“You handled that poorly,” Graham declared.
“You’re right, you’re right,” Janet conceded, head in her hands.
“I should have asked to borrow her uniform instead.”
The family reunited at pool 3, where Orlando made the best cocktails.
“Is the romance blossoming?” enquired Natalie, cheeky and concerned.
“Not really. Your mother seems extremely preoccupied. She’s still angry I didn’t book the fusion restaurant tonight, because apparently Mr Rich and his Senorita from the Presidential Suite will be there.”
“That’s bizarre, because when Angus checked the GoPro footage from Mum’s parasailing yesterday there were 50 photos of the Presidential Suite, especially the bed.”
“What’s even more bizarre is that your mother agreed to go parasailing…”
Mr Combover was not in the dining room that night, so Janet endured the economy buffe without gleaning the information she so desperately craved. Her spirits rose when later she glimpsed Mr Rich and his Senorita in the discotheque. She dragged Graham into the dimly lit club, and he sensed a breakthrough, but she strode determinedly toward Mr Rich and his bejewelled Senorita.
Mr Rich doesn’t dance – doesn’t need to.
Senorita does though. Perhaps Graham could dance with her and extract the information. Graham, swoon and seduce – who was she kidding?
One more night, one more chance.
Janet actually made the move, after the final dinner. A spontaneous barefoot stroll along the deserted, moonlit beach. The two of them, like young lovers, a dim light in the distance to which Janet led her life partner.
A secret dalliance under a dimly lit pagoda, the intoxicating aroma of frangipani and salty air. Success, a spark?
Voices.
An older male and a young Latina. Promises of shopping in Paris and vacations in Bora Bora.
But no mention of towels.
Image: George Tseganis
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