The Birthday That Changed Everything: Perfect summer holiday reading!

I couldn’t deny the fact that I fancied him, but I wasn’t going to act on it. It was way too soon for that kind of thing, and when I did act on it, it wasn’t going to be with a holiday lothario on the prowl for sex on the beach. He was gorgeous – but not for me. Even if he was sparking off some delicious feelings in places I’d forgotten existed.

I’d been fighting off complete breakdown since Simon left. My life consisted of either crying, or mindless tasks to distract me from the pain. The house had never been so clean, and the dog had started to hide in the broom cupboard when he saw me approaching with the lead. I’d assumed that that was it for me and men: game over.

My reaction to James suggested otherwise, but still…it would end in tears. Mine. Whatever was causing me to notice James – backside and the rest – was a momentary blip. I was barely holding myself together surrounded by all these new people; coming to terms with my new status as a singleton. Any more stress would be too much – I’d be like that donkey in Buckaroo! and do a complete flip-out.

No. I was middle-aged, free and single – surely a cause for celebration, I’d decided, reaching for the rosé and topping up my glass.

I got so busy celebrating, in fact, that I spent my first night in Turkey completely pickled. I’d woken up half an hour ago, still dressed and desperate for the loo. Now I was popping paracetamol with my croissants as the kids bickered across the table.

‘So, are you just going to lie on your fat arse all day and get shitfaced again?’ asked Lucy. Ollie, the traitor, laughed out loud.

‘Of course not!’ I said. ‘I’m getting stuck in to the activity programme today. And don’t talk to me like that.’

‘Yeah, right, whatever,’ she said, implying, ‘I know you’re lying’ and ‘I don’t give a fuck’ at the same time. ‘Maybe you’ll try some extreme sunbathing. Or the gin Olympics.’

‘No, come on, Luce, let’s go and sign up for something together now, it’ll be fun,’ I said, standing up and dusting myself down. Today’s ensemble was a very interesting combo of Jenny’s shorts, which were too tight, and Marcia’s bikini, which was slightly too big. Not haute couture, but circus clowns wouldn’t stop on the street to point and laugh either.

Lucy didn’t even bother to reply, so I walked off without her. I marched over to one of the reps, full of indignant outrage and determination to find the New Me.

‘Hi! How are you?’ said the rep – a scruffy-haired surfer dude with wide blue eyes and an accent like Prince William’s.

‘I’m keen,’ I said, ‘but I can’t do anything and I’m really unfit. What do you suggest?’

He laughed. As though he thought I was joking and I’d said something really funny.

‘I’m not joking,’ I said, just to be clear.

‘No, of course not,’ he replied, busying himself looking through the piles of papers and timetables on the desk.

‘What about windsurfing for beginners? That’s on this afternoon, should be a nice day for it as well.’

‘Yes, great, sign me up for that – what else? What about tomorrow?’

‘Ummm…tennis? There’s an assessment session first thing if you’re interested?’

‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘put me down for that. Sally Summers. But I don’t need to bother with the assessment thingy. I’m rubbish, so put me in the lowest group possible. And have you got the times for yoga and Pilates and Boxercise there as well?’

Fully armed with notes, class times and a set of safety instructions which I’d never look at, I wandered back to our breakfast table, planning to wave them in Lucy’s face. I’d show her what a super-fit super-mum I really was.

When I got there Ollie had already left. He’d mentioned something about snorkelling earlier and said he’d see me for lunch.

Lucy, however, was still there – sitting with a terribly good-looking teenaged boy. He had beautiful brown hair that caught auburn glints in the sun, and gorgeous green eyes.

Sylvia Plath was lying forgotten on the table. Lucy’s iPod was no longer attached to her ears. She was listening to him, talking to him, and even issuing the occasional girlie giggle. I almost fainted from the shock.

‘Hi!’ I said as I joined them. Lucy gave me a look that made me feel about as welcome as raw sewage, but the junior hottie returned my smile and actually stood up to greet me. Good looks, and manners too. What on earth was he doing talking to Lucy?

‘Hi, you must be Sally,’ he said. ‘I’m Max – Allie and Mike’s son. I thought I’d come and see how Lucy was doing, and whether she fancied coming swimming with me later – if that’s all right with you, Sally?’

I was momentarily flummoxed by the thought of Lucy requiring my permission to do anything, and apparently so was she. ‘Yeah,’ she said quickly, ‘that sounds great! I love swimming. I’ll go and get changed and meet you back downstairs, okay?’

And off she went. She started running, then remembered her cool and slowed down to a saunter. I swear there was an extra waggle in her hips as she went, like she knew she was being watched.

Weird, weird, weird. Especially as she hadn’t been swimming of her own free will for the last two years.

Chapter 11

Windsurfing wasn’t for another few hours, so I followed the extreme sunbathing route. I needed to rest now, in advance, as I’d be using up a lot of energy later on. Preventative napping – I’m sure it made perfect scientific sense.

Once I was creamed up, hydrated and reclining, the sun started to heat all the tension out of my bones, and I relaxed completely into a state of woozy wellbeing.

All I could hear was the gentle slapping of the water at the pool’s edge, occasional laughter floating up from the beach, and the low-pitched singing of the cicadas in the palm trees. The haunting sounds of the call to prayer from the local mosque echoed around for a minute or two, reminding me that I was somewhere really quite exotic.

Perfect.

So perfect, I may possibly have drifted off to sleep for a little while. Or ‘rested my eyes’, as my gran used to say when she nodded off in the armchair.

I jerked roughly awake when I heard Ollie shouting ‘Mum!’ in a tone that implied it wasn’t the first time. I leaped up, opening my eyes to be confronted by his plastic face inches from my nose.

He pulled off his snorkelling mask, laughing away at his little joke, and said: ‘You were dribbling. And mumbling,’ then did a running jump into the swimming pool.

I investigated my face for slobber, slapped on some more cream and turned over. I tan easily, but cooked on one side and not the other is never a good look.

I was just drifting off again when a feeling of discontent started to swirl around me. I knew Lucy was standing there before she said a word – I could sense her dark aura chilling the air.

I turned round, reluctantly, and looked up into the eye of the storm. Her black hair was wet and dripping round her shoulders. She seemed less tough without a coating of hairspray – like a tortoise without its shell.

Her stance, though, was pure street fighter. Hands on hips, glaring down at me.

‘Yes?’ I asked cautiously, racking my brain for something I’d done to annoy her recently. Other than breathe.

‘You know it’s all your fault I don’t fit in here, don’t you?’ she said, in a quietly furious voice. From bitter experience I knew she’d get louder and louder from this point onwards. I should have dispensed earplugs to all my fellow hotel guests as soon as we’d arrived, out of common courtesy.

‘Erm…if I just say yes, can we leave it there?’ I asked, hopefully.

‘I look like a freak,’ she said, as if I’d never spoken, pointing at her own hair and the thick black mascara that was clumping her eyelashes together.

‘I look like a freak and it’s all your fucking fault! What kind of mother helps her daughter dye her hair black? And wear the kind of clothes I wear?’

‘I don’t know, Lucy,’ I said, ‘a supportive one? And to be fair I did draw the line at that tattoo of a spider’s web you wanted for your birthday—’

‘Shut up!’ she shouted – at about fifty per cent capacity, I’d say.

‘You’re a fucking nightmare! I’m sixteen! I need something to rebel against, but no, you’re always too busy being Mrs Fucking Understanding Sympathetic Parent, aren’t you? It’s all “yes, dear, of course you can dye your hair”, “yes, dear, of course you can paint your room black”, “yes, dear, of course you can shoot up fucking heroin at the dinner table!”’

Cranked right up to seventy per cent now, and building to a big finale.

‘For God’s sake, what do I have to do in the madhouse you call our home to break the rules? Go teetotal or join the SAS? It’s a joke. You’re a joke. You’ve screwed up your own life and now you want to do the same to me! No wonder Dad left!’

She stomped off, flip-flops smacking angrily against the concrete as she headed back to our room. Time for a bit more Sylvia Plath, I suppose.

The woman lying on the next lounger was looking on in horror. She was far too polite to say anything, but her face was frozen somewhere to the south of shocked.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘My only consolation is she’ll be leaving home soon.’

I walked over to the pool’s edge and shouted Ollie over. ‘What’s wrong with Lucy?’ I asked.

‘Do you want a list?’ he answered. I put on my no-nonsense face and folded my arms in front of my chest.

‘Okay, okay…I don’t know. She went swimming with Max and then his mates came and it was no big deal but I think one of them might have called her Morticia.

‘Don’t see why that would bother her, she’d normally just break their arm, but I think it might be ’cause she likes Max so she flipped and got embarrassed. It’s girl stuff, Mum – I don’t understand girls. You should go talk to her.’

Yeah, right. Whatever, as Lucy might say. That was not going to happen. She’d said her piece. She currently hated me. I’d been here before, bought a shop-load of T-shirts, and knew she needed time to calm down before I went anywhere near her. A year or so should do it.

Instead, I walked to the bar. Allie was sitting there under an umbrella, her bare feet propped up on the chair opposite her, a paperback that looked to be about serial killers splayed across her lap.

She glanced up as I arrived, and cracked open one of her best smiles.

‘Trouble in paradise?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow and closing her book.

‘Oh,’ I replied. ‘You heard that, did you?’

‘Yes. Because I’m not deaf. Don’t let it get to you – she doesn’t mean it. She’s probably in her room regretting it right now.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I said, looking yearningly at her cold bottle of Peroni. ‘That would be what a normal human being would do. Lucy, though, will be upstairs plotting evil acts that wouldn’t be out of place in that book you’re reading. But don’t worry – I’m used to it. And I met your Max earlier, Allie – how lovely is he?’

‘On a scale of one to ten,’ she said, smiling proudly, ‘he’s probably a twelve. But that’s what he’s like now – you should have met him when his dad first left, years ago. He was a monster. He was caught shoplifting bags of Wotsits from the corner shop; got into fights at school – the works. I felt so guilty – I knew it was all because of what we, the alleged grown-ups, were doing, messing with his poor little head. I suspect that’s something you understand.’

I pondered it and, while I did so, she kindly pushed her Peroni over and gestured for me to have a swig. True friendship.

‘I do,’ I eventually replied. ‘I do feel guilty. Even though it’s not me who had the affair, or me who walked out. Even though I’d be willing to try and make it work if he wanted to come home. Probably. But…well, it’s complicated, isn’t it? I didn’t walk out – but maybe I switched off. Maybe I didn’t give him what he needed. Maybe I didn’t notice how miserable he was, because I was so busy leading our perfect suburban middle-class life. Maybe it’s at least partly my fault.’

‘And maybe,’ said Allie, grinning across the table at me, ‘he’s actually just a complete wanker.’

‘That is also a distinct possibility,’ I answered, feeling laughter bubble up inside me.

I realised, as I drank my pilfered lager and laughed with my newfound pal, that it was the first time I’d felt genuinely amused, or even capable of anything approaching ‘fun’, for a very long time.

Perhaps the holiday magic was starting to work.

Chapter 12

Windsurfing looks really, really easy. I could see loads of people doing it – gliding effortlessly along in the choppy blue bay, like humans who’d been transformed into graceful swans.

All of which made it especially galling that, so far, the only technique I’d mastered was falling into the sea and coughing up litres of salt water. I couldn’t get enough balance to even stand up on the board, never mind heft the sail upright.

I wanted to give up and go for a little lie-down, but my instructor, Mo, was having none of it. Mo was about thirty and must have weighed in at a good seventeen stone, half of which was made up of ratty brown dreadlocks.

‘You can do it, Sally,’ he said, after my third drenching. ‘You’ll get it eventually and then there’ll be no stopping you. Concentrate. Don’t let it defeat you!’

I tried again. And again. All around me, there were giant splashes, occasional shouts of triumph, and the sound of sails whooshing down to hit the water. Clearly this was a class full of people who were probably also picked last for their netball team during PE lessons.

I took a deep breath, and tried once more. A miracle occurred – I got my sail up, and managed to keep it up, clinging hard to the handle. Okay, it might have been called something like the boom; I’d already forgotten the jargon. I don’t know how it happened – it was a complete fluke, like scoring a 147 in snooker when you’ve never picked up a stick before.

‘Mo! Look!’ I shouted, terrified I’d fall off again before my mentor could witness my moment of glory.

He was knee-deep in water, helping one of the other physical incompetents, but turned round to see what I was up to.

A broad grin split his round face in two, and he made a thumbs-up gesture with both hands. ‘Go for it, Sally! The bay’s your oyster!’

With hindsight I suspect he didn’t mean quite that. What he probably meant was ‘don’t go further than ten feet away from me under any circumstances, but I won’t bother saying it as you’re bound to fall off again any second now.’

I wasn’t listening anyway. I was too busy congratulating myself. I could do it! I could windsurf – and I was the first person in the beginners’ class to actually be up, up and away. Unbelievable. First actual laughter with Allie, now a physical triumph. Things were looking up.

It was probably the most self-satisfied I’d felt since I got through childbirth without an epidural. If only Simon could see me now. And Ollie and Lucy. Maybe I’d get a certificate, or a prize, or possibly some sort of championship jersey and a trophy…

I was gliding along, sun glinting from the sail as I went, cutting my way through the waves, moving the mast backwards and forwards to catch the breeze.

This is a piece of cake, I was thinking. I must be a natural – I’d found my sporting forte at long last. After being crap at everything from darts to horse-riding, I’d finally discovered something I could do. I was now anticipating further lessons back home, possibly competing at international level.

Pride, of course, is the traditional forerunner of a fall. Or, in my case, the onset of a panic attack. I realised, when the learners back on the shore started to look like tiny colourful ants, that I’d travelled quite a long way without really noticing what I was doing. It felt as if I was miles away. Halfway to the nearest Greek island at least.

Despite my obvious natural talent and the international windsurfing career that beckoned, I had one very big problem: I had absolutely no idea how to turn this thing around. I could head in only one direction – towards a watery death.

The instructors were back there, dealing with all the others crashing into each other and almost drowning, and I was out here. On my own. Far, far away.

Would they send out a search party when it got to dinner and I didn’t show up? Would Lucy and Ollie notice I was gone at all until they needed their passports? How far away was the next Greek island anyway?

I made a few weedy attempts at twisting the sail around in the opposite direction, but that didn’t work. I dipped my foot in to use as a kind of rudder, but one size-five foot against the whole ocean wasn’t much use. My arms were getting tired. My legs were starting to feel like rubber. And I was so scared I thought I might wee my pants some time soon. Where was David Hasselhoff when you needed him?

I’d just decided to jump for it and try to swim my way back, somehow dragging the board with me, when I heard a shout coming from behind.

‘Sally! You okay? Can you tack?’

I recognised the voice straight away. James. Bloody typical. Of all the gin joints in all the world…I had to splutter into his. Drowners can’t be choosers, though, so I yelled back: ‘No! I can’t tack! I don’t even know what that is! Help! Send out a distress flare or call the coastguard or something!’

‘Just jump off,’ he yelled, ‘and swim to me – I’m not far behind you. Don’t panic – you’re going to be fine.’

Easy for him to say. He was probably an expert on tacking, whatever the hell that meant – and I was presuming at that stage it was nothing to do with dressmaking.

I jumped in, holding my nose, fighting back a surge of panic as I splashed down.

James was in a small white boat, leaning over the edge and holding out his hands to me. He had his lower body stretched out over to the other side for balance.

I doggie-paddled my way over, choking afresh each time a wave hit me in the face, until I was by the side. He grabbed hold of my hands and pulled me up. I landed in a wet, undignified heap in the middle of the boat, with what felt like a wedge of wood poking up between my bum cheeks.

‘Ouch!’ I shrieked, wanting to leap up but only capable of throwing myself forward on to all fours. James was sitting directly in front of me, trying not to laugh. He was wearing form-fitting cycling-type shorts, and a second-skin top that made his muscles look as if they’d been coated in shiny black paint. None of which made it easy to hate him.

‘Thanks,’ I said, perching myself on the opposite ledge. ‘I think you might have saved my life…or at least saved me a long swim. I kept going and going and I just couldn’t turn round…’

‘Tack,’ he said, ‘that’s what you do to turn. I’m impressed you made it this far on your first lesson, even if you did get stuck – most beginners just fall in for an hour.’

‘I know!’ I answered, wringing out my hair, ‘I’m made up with myself! Not sure I’ll be doing it again any time soon, though. I had a few minutes before you turned up when I was petrified. I don’t think a life on the ocean wave is for me really.’

As we spoke he was untying some rope, pushing a stick around, and doing something that made the sails move. As you can tell from my masterly use of the terminology, I am a sailing expert.

‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I bet you could sail this. I could show you how.’

Yeah, I thought. And I bet it was like golf or tennis in the movies, and he’d have to put his arms round me in the process.

‘Erm…what is this anyway? A little yacht?’

‘This is a dinghy. Small enough to sail single-handed, but big enough for a few more if needs be. Jake loves them – next year he might even start going out on his own.’

Even a six-year-old was better at water sports than me. Why wasn’t I surprised?

‘Okay, well, good for him. I need a bit of a rest, though. Give me a few minutes to dry out and then maybe I’ll try. And what do we do about the gear?’

‘Don’t worry, they’ll nip out in the speedboat and collect it later. They’ll just be glad you’re back. I’d like to pretend I’m your knight in shining armour, but they’d have fetched you before long. So relax – take your few minutes,’ he said, a gentle smile curving those luscious lips. He went back to doing things with ropes and sticks and sails, and I did as I was told.

I stretched out my legs as far as I could, closed my eyes, and let the sun soak into my skin. It was so quiet out here. Serene, in fact, if all you had to do was act like a cat on a window ledge on a summer’s day.

We were both silent for a few minutes, and I could feel from the stable bobbing of the waves that we were staying put. Perhaps he was taken aback by my beauty and unable to move. More likely I was supposed to do something to help him.

‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’ll take you out on a bigger boat. Then you can bring a blanket and just stretch out in the sun all day like that…’

I opened my eyes sharply and looked at him. That sounded blissful – and dangerously flirtatious.

‘We could always take Jake if you need a chaperone,’ he said, a hint of challenge in his voice. ‘Anyway, come on, help me sail this little yacht back to shore – it’s easy,’ he said, before I had chance to answer.

He pointed at the stick. ‘This,’ he said, ‘controls the tiller. You use this to steer, and turn around. When you’re sailing a dinghy, you use your bodyweight as ballast, which is what stops it from capsizing. That bit there’s called the dagger board. You sat on it earlier. You can see the sails yourself, and they’re attached to the boom at the bottom. Watch out for it, if you don’t pay attention it can whack you on the head.’

Great. Another way to injure myself. I was obviously fated not to get to shore safe and sound.

He did some strange slow-motion action that involved him feeding the stick – sorry, the tiller – behind his back, pulling on the ropes, and moving from one side of the boat to the other. All of which he did with total ease, of course. Bet he was never picked last for the netball team.

He tried to make it simple, but I was distracted by a million and one things: exhaustion, stupidity, and the lazy curl of lust in my tummy as I watched him moving and listened to him speak.

‘Right – your turn,’ he said.

‘No. Sorry, but I’m knackered. I need you to be a knight in shining armour for a bit longer.’

‘Well, when you put it like that,’ he answered, laughing, ‘how could a man resist? I’m going to need you to move around when I tell you to, though, okay?’

As we made our way back, he mentioned that Jake’s mother took him sailing when he stayed with her for holidays. Hmm. That meant he had Jake full time, which wasn’t what I’d assumed…I’d assumed, in all honesty, that he was a weekend dad. Shagging his way through his middle-life crisis Monday to Friday, and going to McDonald’s on Saturday.

It sounded as though I’d been wrong. I hated that. Before I could find out any more, he moved quickly on to another subject.

He asked about Ollie, who he’d met that morning snorkelling, and about Lucy, who he hadn’t met and who I hoped he never would meet, for his sake. He didn’t ask about their father – showing me the same discretion he misguidedly expected himself. Probably, knowing how close these Blue Bay people were, Allie had already filled him in on the situation.

I was pleased if she had. It saved me having the whole conversation again – I was here to try and forget Simon for a while, or at least relieve the pressure of thinking about him twenty-four hours a day. I’d have been happy if she’d issued a press release about it, in fact, if it saved me having to describe my loveless state to anyone else.

Instead, we talked about Jake. About his school life. About Dublin. And, against my better judgement, I realised that I was starting to relax around him. Even enjoy his company. It was a mix of his obvious competence, his drool-inspiring voice, and the fact that he looked like a walking piece of erotica.