4

      Alison

      ‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ Chelsea asked as they approached the end of their shift.

      Alison hesitated. Chelsea – early forties, divorced – had a strong opinion on anything and everything, especially other peoples’ relationships, and was never shy about voicing it. She was also like a tracker dog when it came to sniffing out a lie. ‘Food shopping then preparing a roast dinner for Dave,’ she responded, trying to sound casual.

      Chelsea tutted. ‘Spoiling Dave for a change? Why do you bother? He never spoils you. He forgot the anniversary and your birthday. Why not have an afternoon for you instead of that idiot?’

      ‘He’s not an idiot.’ Cheeks burning, Alison grabbed the handover log and pretended to check it. What gave Chelsea the right to criticise Dave all the time? She’d never even met him so why did she hold such a low opinion of him? Alison nearly laughed out loud as the irony struck her. It was her fault. Chelsea’s opinion came from what Alison had told her and clearly she hadn’t painted him in a favourable light.

      ‘And he didn’t forget my birthday,’ she added in a calmer tone, keen to redeem Dave. ‘He got the dates mixed up. That’s all. He was only a day late with his gift and it was exactly what I wanted.’

      Chelsea’s shriek of laughter ricocheted off the marble walls, drawing curious glances from guests seated in the lobby. ‘A gift card?’ Chelsea cried. ‘So much deep thought must have gone into that.’

      ‘You know I love reading so it was the perfect gift for me. Anyway, there’s an ulterior motive for the roast. I’m hoping to persuade him to go abroad when we’re off next month.’

      ‘I thought Dave was finally fitting the kitchen.’

      ‘He was, but it’s waited four years already, so what’s another few months? Besides, I’m used to the chaos.’ She wasn’t. Drawer fronts coming off in her hands, cupboard doors hanging from their hinges, and a cold concrete floor had turned her creative space into a place to avoid.

      ‘You hate your kitchen, though,’ Chelsea said. ‘Why not get the kitchen done and book a holiday for later?’

      A guest approached the reception desk, ending their conversation.

      Alison completed some paperwork while Chelsea checked the woman in and answered a barrage of questions. Was Chelsea right about prioritising the kitchen over a holiday? Dave had never hidden his resentment at spending his free time on home improvements. Only last night, they’d spent an hour checking through the flat-pack boxes filling the dining room when he’d muttered, ‘Can’t believe I’ll be spending my week off doing what I spend my working days doing. Some bloody holiday. I wish we were going abroad instead.’

      She’d looked up from her checklist. ‘Ooh, me too. Where would you fancy?’

      He smiled then winked at her. ‘Do you remember Corfu?’

      ‘Best holiday ever,’ she said, pulse racing at the memory of the last-minute deal they’d taken to celebrate turning twenty-one. It was six years ago but she could remember every detail like yesterday.

      ‘Why don’t you open that bottle of Rioja?’ he suggested.

      ‘But it’s a school night.’

      ‘I feel like living dangerously.’

      Giggling, Alison headed for the kitchen. The last time he’d suggested sharing a bottle of wine was the last time they’d been intimate. Maybe…?

      Curled up together on the sofa, they spent the next hour or so reminiscing about Corfu. Lazy days by the pool had transitioned into nights filled with hot, passionate sex everywhere: the beach, a dark corner of a club, the pool, their balcony.

      ‘I never wanted that holiday to end.’ Alison gently stroked Dave’s thigh.

      ‘Me neither.’

      He leaned towards her and she held her breath. He was going to kiss her. He was going to… But he placed his empty wine glass on the lamp table beside her and yawned. ‘I’m done in. Early start. Night.’

      ‘Oh. Okay. I’ll finish this, then I’ll be up.’ Her voice sounded small and distant, but Dave didn’t seem to notice. Without so much as a peck on the cheek, he left the room.

      Alison swigged the last of her wine, sighed, and sank back into the sofa, shoulders slumping. Not like Corfu, then. Never like Corfu.

      She put her glass down and picked up an A5-sized photo frame.

      ‘What happened to us?’ she whispered, running her fingers across the image of the pair of them sipping cocktails at a swim-up bar, tanned, happy, and besotted with each other. ‘You promised me you wouldn’t change. You said we were family. Just the two of us, always and forever.’ Alison swiped at her damp cheeks. ‘I need you to be my family, Dave. You’re the only one left.’

      Mercedes arrived for the next shift just then, bringing Alison’s focus back to the present. Chelsea was trapped answering a guest’s questions so Alison ran through the handover log then escaped, keen to avoid more of Chelsea’s Dave-bashing.

      Five minutes later, standing outside Bay Travel, Alison deliberated. Holiday or kitchen? She desperately wanted the kitchen fitted but she also desperately wanted the man she loved to look at her the way he used to, to touch her, to kiss her, to tell her how much he loved her, to tell her she was his family, always and forever. She wanted intimacy. She wanted conversation. She wanted Corfu. Sod it. She pushed the door open and strode towards the section labelled: ‘Greek Islands’. Holiday one, kitchen nil.