The Accidental Honeymoon. Portia MacIntosh
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Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why can’t people just leave me in peace?!
‘Want to come over here and have a chat about stuff?’
I furrow my brow. What the hell is this guy’s deal? Is he hitting on me?
‘I’m fine where I am, thank you,’ I say politely, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me alone.
‘Look, that money you lost… it might have meant a lot to you, but it’s not worth getting upset over.’
For a moment I laugh, because that’s the least of my problems. But then it occurs to me this person has been watching me. Streaming eyes and messy make-up no longer matter to me as I turn around.
‘Are you following me?’ I ask accusingly.
‘I saw you, at the table. I saw you lose, I saw that you were upset and then I saw you come up here. And now you’re standing too close to the edge for my liking, so…’
‘You think I’m going to jump?’ I shriek.
‘When you took your shoes off…’
‘Oh, yeah, I took my shoes off. I’m definitely going to kill myself.’
I can’t exactly see the person I’m talking to. He’s standing in the shadows under a particularly tall plant that blocks the light above it.
I wouldn’t normally be so outspoken; this is not me at all. I feel like I’m spectating someone who isn’t me because she doesn’t look like me, sound like me, or act like me. Perhaps my new look is empowering me – then again, maybe it’s the champagne.
‘All right, there’s no need to be sarcastic,’ he replies. ‘Just… won’t you come over here, sit down and talk to me for a second?’
If I want to shake this one, I’m going to have to convince him I’m not suicidal. Things might be bad, but they’re not that bad.
I wipe my eyes and walk over to where he’s standing.
‘See, not jumping,’ I tell him, finally coming face to face with my stalker.
He’s tall – 6’2” maybe – with broad shoulders and huge arms. I can’t see under his T-shirt, but I can tell from the way it clings he’s an absolute unit of a man. He has stylish brown hair and strong facial features, but his sharp jawline contrasts with his adorable dimples, which, in spite of his hulking muscles, give him this soft, approachable look. He must be a security guard of some kind, given his size and the fact he’s up here and on my case.
‘That’s better,’ he says softly. ‘So, go on, what’s his name?’
‘Whose name?’ I ask.
‘The guy who’s driven you to crying on the rooftop.’
‘What makes you so sure it was a guy?’ I ask angrily.
The man gestures at the outdoor sofa in front of us, instructing me to sit down. I do, but only because I suspect I’m about to be placed under hotel arrest for something.
‘Look, I’ve seen it a million times. Pretty young thing like you, you come in with one of the high rollers, he tries to keep you sweet, gives you a few of his chips to play with…’
‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, my frustration with this man increasing.
‘I saw you, playing with the golden chips, the complimentary ones we give to high rollers. And I saw you playing badly, so you’re obviously not a gambler. I’ve seen it countless times, pretty girls come in with rich guys who are definitely going to leave their wives.’
I can’t help but notice the sarcasm in his sentence – I thought Americans weren’t into that?
‘So, you think I’m some pissed-off mistress wasting my boyfriend’s money?’
Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any worse. I’m not just upset, though, I’m angry, and I think the slow and steady stream of alcohol I’ve consumed today has made me seriously sassy and outspoken.
‘Do I look like an adulterer’s piece of arm candy to you?’ I ask genuinely.
‘I mean…’
Oh. I’d forgotten about my makeover. But even so, how dare he judge me.
‘Well, what are you, some meathead, jumped-up member of security who stalks vulnerable young women?’
He laughs.
‘Not security, as such.’
‘No? Then let me guess, you dress up as a cop in some kind of budget Magic Mike show?’
He splutters a laugh.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asks, clearly equal parts offended and amused.
‘You’re not the only one who can make snap judgements. You’ve go to be one or the other – what are you, fifteen per cent body fat?’
‘Fourteen,’ he replies casually. ‘My goal is twelve, but have you tried the crème brûlée here?’
‘Are you always this arrogant?’ I ask.
‘Only when provoked,’ he laughs.
His cheeky smile infuriates me.
‘So, what?’
‘So, I watch the games on CCTV, keep an eye out for cheaters. I saw you, playing your weird hand with chips usually reserved for high rollers – it’s my job to keep an eye out for things like that. But I saw something else: I saw that you were upset. I saw you crying in the elevator, I saw you approaching the edge on the terrace, taking your heels off… It sounds stupid now,’ he laughs, ‘but I thought you were going to do something stupid. I was worried about you and couldn’t just leave you to it.’
‘Thanks,’ I tell him, finally softening. ‘I’m sorry I thought you were a stripper.’
‘I’m sorry I thought you were a prostitute,’ he laughs. ‘Kidding,’ he adds quickly, probably having seen the unimpressed look that is no doubt on my face.
I let out a little laugh. It’s hard not to be charmed by him, even when he’s being cheeky.
‘Just remember that whatever life throws at us, we can fix it,’ he tells me casually.
He’s over simplifying things, but I appreciate the thought, and there is some truth to it. Things are bad sometimes, but we deal with them.
‘Well, I’d better get back to work. I’m Jack, by the way,’ he tells me, offering me his hand to shake.
‘I’m Georgie,’ I reply. ‘I’ll be sure to remember your name for my Tripadvisor review – this hotel’s suicide prevention service is second to none.’
As our hands separate, Jack pulls a bouquet of artificial flowers seemingly from the thin air between our hands.
‘For the lady,’ he says jokily, adopting an English gentleman’s accent.
‘Wow…’ I laugh. ‘Aren’t you a cool guy.’
Jack wiggles his eyebrows at me.
‘I’ve always got something up my sleeve. See you around, Georgie.’
‘See you,’ I call after him.
‘I’ll probably see you first… because of all the cameras…’
I examine the artificial flowers he gave me – rainbow-coloured carnations. As flowers go, they’re pretty ugly, but I can’t help smiling at them. Jack hasn’t just given me flowers, he’s given me a tiny shred of hope in the biggest mess I’ve ever been in – a far more impressive trick than pulling flowers out of thin air, don’t you think?