Samantha
Samantha clutched her stomach and groaned as she stared at her reflection in the motel-room mirror, and the inch of skin protruding out between the two halves of her nautical-style tankini. For over a month she’d unintentionally cut out refined sugar. She’d eaten rice, noodles and vegetables in Southeast Asia, and mainly fresh fruit and meat in Australia. With the exception of a few Oreos when they’d been miles from anywhere, she’d had a healthy diet, and it showed. Or it had, until she’d landed in LA. Now even the apple she’d eaten at breakfast tasted as if it had been injected with sugar and her stomach was bloating in protest.
Samantha sighed and flopped onto one of the beds, causing the springs to creak in protest. So much for a day lounging by the pool in a bikini.
Her eyes followed the blotchy swirls of yellow and brown on the otherwise white polystyrene ceiling tiles above her head. Their motel room could quite easily have been the film set for any American movie. They had two double beds in a gloomy room with one small window and a small beige shower room.
Deep-fried odours lingered in the air. Samantha imagined the previous occupant digging into a box of crispy fried chicken wings, wiping oily fingers on the olive-green bedspread. The smell reminded her of her grandmother’s flat and the deep fat fryer that had been in almost-constant use.
The motel was built in a three-storey L-shape, with the doors all facing a small swimming pool area. They were staying on the second floor, which had led to some confusion when the desk clerk – a bony man with thinning blonde hair and wire-framed glasses – had given them the keys.
‘You’re halfway down on the second floor. Rooms E and G,’ he’d said. ‘Any problems, there’s someone here twenty-four-seven.’
Her head had spun with jet lag as they’d traipsed up two flights of steps and spent several minutes jiggling their keys in the locks.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ Lizzie had said as they’d trundled back into the desk clerk’s office, ‘but our keys don’t work.’
The clerk had removed his glasses and squinted at both the keys. ‘You went to the second floor?’
‘Yes.’ Lizzie had nodded. She’d pointed to a fire exit map with a drawing of the motel building on it. ‘One, two.’
The clerk had chuckled, which was about the time that frustrated tears had stung in Samantha’s eyes, and she’d considered giving up on a room and curling up on one of the armchairs in the clerk’s office. ‘One, two, three,’ he’d said.
In the end, the clerk had locked the office and showed them to their rooms. It turned out ground floors didn’t exist in LA and they’d been on the wrong floor.
Samantha closed her eyes and willed the ringing in her ears to subside. Last night had been such a high. Singing at the top of her voice to every one of Guy’s songs. Finding themselves invited back stage. She’d even spoken to Guy. For two surreal minutes, they’d chatted about the weather in Thailand. Although why she’d felt the need to go into such detail about how much she’d sweated was beyond her.
Then there was Kev, the drummer of The Rocket Boys, and the polar opposite of David. Kev was shy to the point of rudeness, with scraggly hair that he’d kept scooping behind his ears, only for it to fall back onto his face a moment later.
He was tall, with clown-like baggy jeans and a faded red T-shirt which had sleeves so long they’d covered half his hands. He wasn’t her type. She’d known that just by looking at him. He didn’t fit into the ‘future husband’, mould in her head, but after David, she was happy to break the mould … smash it to smithereens even.
‘Do you ever get the impression that everyone else in the room was born with some kind of sociability gene which we didn’t get?’ he’d asked.
‘Or was it taught in school?’ she’d replied. ‘And we were off sick that day? Somewhere between RE and double maths there was a socialising-at-parties class.’
He’d smiled then, although his focus had remained fixed on peeling the label off his Budweiser bottle.
It turned out that they’d both grown up in tower blocks. Him in Hull, and her in north London. Both had been the only members of their families to want more. Kev had focused on his drumming, and she on her studies. Both had made it out.
‘What does your boyfriend think of you lot travelling then?’ he’d asked her much later.
‘I don’t have a boyfriend. I did when we left, but we broke up.’
‘Long-distance relationships are tough.’
‘Not as tough as relationships with controlling dickheads.’
He’d raised his head and looked into her eyes for the first time. ‘At some point, we’ll be heading back to England to finish our album. Can I see you?’
There was nothing quixotic about his question. He hadn’t asked her on a date. He hadn’t tried to kiss her, or so much as brushed his leg against hers, but a miniature tornado had still funnelled in her stomach. ‘Sure,’ she’d said.
A knock at the door startled Samantha out of the memory.
‘Hang on,’ she said, wincing at the effort inflicted on her vocal chords. Her voice felt as if it had been dragged through stinging nettles.
She reached the door and pulled it open. Caroline stood in the doorway in an immaculate, navy, trouser suit.
‘Oh,’ Caroline said.
‘Hi, Caroline. I didn’t know you were coming,’ Samantha said, her voice still hoarse.
Caroline’s eyes peered into the room. ‘You’re not supposed to know. I thought this was Ben’s room.’ She threw her hands up. ‘I’ve been on the floor above, knocking on the wrong rooms for ten minutes.’
‘Really.’ Samantha smiled, before pointing to the pool. ‘Lizzie and Jaddi are at the pool. I’m sure Ben’s with them too.’
‘Thanks. Can you head down there? Don’t tell them I’m here, and look surprised when you see me.’
‘Sure.’ Samantha nodded and closed the door. ‘Just give me a minute.
Samantha’s brain sped into overdrive as she grabbed her sarong and tied it around her cleavage. Something was clearly going on, but no way was she going to obey Caroline’s request not to warn Jaddi and Lizzie.