Amoreira

Him

He was laughing as he scrolled the photos from that trip. Sitting on the sofa, actually laughing out loud, even though there was no-one else there to share the laugh with. He took a swig from the ice cold bottle of beer he was holding, and half-choked, half-gurgled as he gulped the liquid, still laughing, his thumb still scrolling.

The Algarve, 2020. They’d found a really good deal on the outskirts of a little village called Alvor. Couple of minutes by car into the centre. Or a fifteen minute walk, downhill. The chalet was enormous. Far bigger than they needed. Three bedrooms meant they could change which room they slept in every two nights. A well equipped kitchen for lazy breakfasts. A barbecue on their private veranda so they could grill fresh meat or fish every night to go with the salads they rustled up in the kitchen and save money on eating out in restaurants.

The guests in the neighbouring chalets were super cool too. They’d spent a couple of evenings getting drunk on cheap bottles of chilled port with some of them, chatting away into the small hours about the best beaches to visit, away from the tourist hotspots. Music humming in the background on the little speaker connected to the phone. Someone passing a spliff round. Under the sultry stars and balmy moonlight.

Meg was the hostess with the mostest, as usual. You couldn’t beat Meg for keeping a party going. Endless supplies of nibbles, a clean glass when you changed your poison, picking the right song on Spotify for the mood, the next bottle open before the last one was finished, a blanket or cardy for whoever if it got a bit chilly, and she really listened to people’s life stories. She was a superstar, was Meg. Even the stray cats there loved her, always circling her ankles or jumping up onto her lap for a cuddle. Almost made him jealous.

But he was laughing in particular about the night they’d all gone skinny dipping. It was well after 2 am, they’d all eaten a lot and drunk even more - a full crate of beer and several bottles of port. Meg had marinated two kilos of chicken thighs and then he’d grilled it on the coals, along with fat slices of halloumi. It was her rule. A barbecue wasn’t a barbecue without halloumi. And she’d quickly thrown together a couple of salads in the kitchen. Everyone thought she was just so fabulous. Because she was. He remembered how proud he’d felt of her that night in the warm glow of the dying embers.

Then someone had the bright idea to go down to the beach for a midnight swim, the accuracy of the hour being totally unimportant. The nearest beach was only a ten minute walk. Meg made sure everyone had towels. And off they’d toddled, out of the complex’s squeaky gate, merrily bumping off of one and another along the quiet streets, taking their flip flops off as soon as they hit sand. Someone stripped off butt naked. Sandro was it? He couldn’t remember. Well, that started it, screeching and hooting, t-shirts and shorts were torn off, thrown in the air, landing in heaps on the sand, and everyone made a moonlit dash for the inky black sea.

Meg’s face was a picture. He’d had to cajole her into it. Reassure her it would be fine. He was laughing so much at how terrified she’d been, not wanting to bare her all to a bunch of strangers. He’d kept telling her, come on, we’ll be in the water for most of the time, no-one’s gonna see your bits. And, anyway, you’re gorgeous. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. He’d told her to let her hair down. He’d told her they weren’t strangers – they’d all just spent the last four days together. He’d gone first to encourage her and stood there with his equipment shrivelling up in the cool night sea breeze. The others were shouting from the water, come on, come in.

In the end, he’d had to scoop her up in his arms and run with her down to the water’s edge, still wearing her bikini under her shorts and vest top. She was hiccuping with laughter, begging him to put her down. He’d set her down at the shoreline, panting heavily from running with her cradled in his arms. The water was lapping at her feet. She’d immediately tried to make a run for it, but he’d grabbed her arm again. God they were all laughing so much. She was so much fun, was Meg. She knew how to make people laugh. There was nothing for it. He picked her up again and carried her into the water with him with her clothes still on. Everyone was clapping and cheering.

It all got a bit wild in the sea. Alcohol and naked bodies. Whoowhee. It was an experience, that was for sure. Of course, once their energy was spent and the cold salty water had sobered them up, they dried themselves off on the towels Meg had insisted they take and got dressed again into their discarded dry clothes. Apart from Meg. Who now had to strip out of her wet clothes in front of everyone and walk back home wrapped only in a towel. Her teeth chattered the whole way back. Sandro, or whatever he was called, offered her his t-shirt. Not in a taking it off and giving it to her kind of way. In a we can both wear it at the same time kind of way. He tried to warm her up but she wasn’t having any of it. Very loyal was Meg.

He couldn’t remember why, but everyone ended up crashing out in their chalet that night. In the two spare bedrooms. On the sofa. In their bed. The sun streaming in through the window had woken him up and he’d remembered picking his way through scattered bodies to go for a pee. It looked like a battlefield. His head had felt like it’d been in battle too. But despite the pounding temples, it had been such a mad night. He’d started chuckling at the memory of Meg. The only one who wouldn’t take her clothes off being the only one ending up naked as they walked home.

His chuckling had roused two of the scattered bodies. He immediately remembered their bodies in the water last night. So he’d taken another dip. He was fairly sure Sandro was taking a dip with Meg right now anyway. She was super cool, was Meg.

* * *

Her

She was sitting on the sofa with her cup of coffee, scrolling through photos, deleting them one by one. Tears silently rolling down her cheeks. Her therapist had told her to delete the images, to let them go, stop holding on to them. This was the last time she would look at them, then they’d be gone. Forever. Not that it would erase the memory.

The Algarve, 2020. She’d found a pretty little harbourside studio apartment in Alvor. It looked clean, well maintained, with lovely sea views. But he’d said it looked boring. He’d found some cheap, grotty chalets further out from the village, with a horrible half-hour, uphill walk to get back to them. The chalet was pointlessly enormous for the two of them. That wouldn’t have mattered, but the bathroom was at one end and the bedrooms at the other, so you had to walk through a long narrow hallway, the lounge and the kitchen in the middle of the night when you wanted a pee. Everything was filthy. And broken. The windows and doors didn’t lock. The kitchen had an ancient gas hob you had to light with matches and was definitely a fire hazard, one frying pan with a broken handle, a random selection of chipped crockery and glasses, three forks, one blunt chopping knife and a teaspoon – nowhere near enough for the six guest capacity it was advertised as. The hand-held rubber shower attached to the bath taps ran at a trickle which made washing her hair an hour long mission and the smell from the drains – well! There were also the extra guests, exploring the kitchen cupboards each morning with their antennae. She’d thought, we’ll be eating out every evening, for sure.

The neighbouring chalets housed a bunch of pot-smoking hippies, who walked around half-naked most of the time and made uncomfortable eye contact with her. Unfortunately, Danny thought it was a great idea to get to know new people and kept inviting them over in the evenings. She’d treated herself to an expensive bottle of port that the helpful chap in the shop had recommended. The hippies brought over vile, cheap stuff that would probably make you go blind. And God, did they all stink of armpits. Between them, the marijuana and the drains, she’d felt nauseous for most of the holiday.

Get this Meg, do that Meg, was Danny’s mantra. Put a broomstick up your arse and sweep the floor whilst you’re at it Meg. He’d arranged to have a barbecue with the lot of them. At their chalet of course – because the hippies didn’t have enough space, apparently. She’d suggested that they’d have to buy a couple of those disposable barbecues because they’d all get E.coli if they used the rusty old metal drum that was sitting on their porch. Of course, he’d told her not to be stupid, the fire would kill any germs.

In the supermarket, he’d naturally been in charge of booze. She’d organised food. As much as she didn’t want to spend the evening doing this, neither did she want to be criticised for not putting on a good show. Or not having things to actually eat off and drink out of, which meant also buying a supply of plastic plates, cups, and cutlery. So much for saving the planet. He’d ridiculed her at the amount of snacks in the trolley, the huge quantity of chicken, and the number of ingredients to make side dishes with. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon crushing garlic and squeezing lemon to marinate the chicken, chopping vegetables with the blunt knife, boiling potatoes, making salads and juggling a bag of ice cubes and bottled beer between the far too small and not very cold freezer box and fridge.

They’d all sat round applauding Danny as he successfully turned several pieces of chicken over on the barbecue. The barbecue that she’d lit the coals on, fanned for fifteen minutes to get a good flame going and then scrubbed years of previous hippy residue off the grill with wire wool so as not to kill them all.

Meg, put that Spanish guitar music playlist on. You know the one.

He was sitting drinking beer, deep in conversation with one of the other couples, the chicken now burning on the grill. Somewhere in between putting packets of nuts and crisps on the table, ripping bread into chunks, telling people to go to the kitchen to help themselves to salad, showing them where the kitchen was as they were apparently incapable of chalet navigation, rescuing the chicken from cremation, clearing empty beer bottles into a black bin liner and opening another bottle of wine, she’d found the required playlist. It sounded like shite coming through the stupid tinny speaker he’d connected to his phone. Sounded more like someone slitting their wrists with an egg slicer.

It was getting late. She really wanted them all to piss off, so she could get some sleep. She was exhausted after the day’s shopping and preparations, and so far, there was no evidence that any of them would offer to help her clear up. They were all enjoying themselves far too much. She’d sat listening to one of them drone on about some commune he’d stayed in. Except, she wasn’t really listening. She was staring into the black night beyond his left ear. It was considerably more interesting.

Finally! she’d remembered thinking, as several of them had started to make a move. But clearly, she’d missed something on a trip back to the kitchen for another bin liner.

Get the towels Meg. We’re going for a swim.

She’d thought they’d meant the pool. They could all go. She’d go to bed. But no, apparently, they were all off to the beach. Ridiculous. At 2 am. They’d probably get arrested for noise disturbance. Still, they could all go. She would clear up in peace and then go to bed.

Unfortunately, that creep Sancho had other ideas. Said he’d stay behind with her. Help her. He said it all smiley and big white teeth, whilst trying to fondle her tits. So, she’d had to go to the bloody beach too hadn’t she. And no, she’d definitely not wanted to get butt naked when Sancho ripped his clothes off, nodding at her and then down at his erection.

Danny was completely oblivious. Of course he was. He was too busy watching the pair of girls from Belgium wiggle their tits and arses, as he hurriedly stripped off too. Idiot was trying to convince her to just chill out, voice directed at her, eyes fixed on Antwerp. He’d thought she was being a prude. They probably all did. Apart from Sancho. Or maybe he did too.

She was screaming at Danny to put her down. Literally screaming and crying hot, angry tears. She knew they all thought it was hilarious. It probably did look hilarious. Danny, naked, running with her, fully clothed, in his arms, straight into the sea. Because that’s what they were all looking at. She’d been looking at Sancho’s lascivious lip licking and beckoning finger.

In the cold inky water, she froze. Danny had let go of her as the two girls swam up to them. One of the girls had embraced her, congratulated her, welcomed her into the water like a fucking mermaid. The other had maybe embraced Danny. It was difficult to know what was going on beneath the surface. Sancho was making a wading beeline for them. She’d begged the other girl not to let her go. Which had sent the wrong signal entirely. Now she was fighting off a Belgian girl and Sancho. She’d gotten out of the water as quickly as possible, whilst the rest of them enjoyed whatever it was they were enjoying. She’d felt sick. She’d sat on a towel in her wet clothes, shivering, as Sancho walked out of the sea and up the beach towards her, arms hanging openly at his sides, shaking out his mane of black hair, like the naked man from Atlantis.

How was it that none of them saw? Well, obviously because they were all too carried away in their own fishy orgy. She’d not stopped shaking the whole walk back to the chalet. Danny laughing the whole time at her. Clueless.

She’d thrown up in the toilet. The toilet with a door that didn’t lock. And that’s how it happened again. Beyond the toilet door, a mass of entangled, smelly bodies, not being prudish. This side of the door with no lock pure hell on earth.