A Week in the Caribbean

Monday

I can clearly remember the first words Chuck said to me:

"Howdy, what are ya drinkin', hon?"

Nobody in their right mind back at home in Luton would say those words. 'Howdy' was obviously ridiculous but even calling someone 'hon' would sound strange. I'd been called a lot of different names in my nearly-forty years but I was fairly sure this was the first time it had been 'hon'. And he said it so casually, too, like he said that every day. I suppose he did say it every day.

"Double vodka and orange juice," I replied, in a very upright, British kind of way. Nothing extra except the exact drink order. Making it clear I wasn't in the mood for small talk.

Chuck completely ignored this.

"Coming right up, ma'am. Escaping from the kids, huh?"

I looked at him, and he looked at me, laughter on his face. "Saw you with them earlier in the pool," he explained, as he dispensed two measures of vodka and a bit for luck.

It was impossible not to be drawn in by his patter. "Yeah, something like that," I conceded.

In went the orange juice and the drink slid across the bar to me. It had ice and there was instantly condensation forming on the glass. The air was just as warm as it had been all day, even though it was dusk now, one of those nights in the Caribbean where the feeling of a thunderstorm was constantly in the air.

I necked the drink in one, before any more condensation could form, and put it back on the bar. Chuck's attention hadn't drifted for a moment and he had the vodka in hand the moment the glass was out of mine.

"Kids being a real pain in the ass, huh?" He laughed. And then, because he was male and his vision wasn't impaired, he looked at my tits. This had been a familiar experience for me since I was a teenager, blessed with large breasts as I was, and having two children had only increased the size. Although I now looked enviously back at how perky they'd been pre-kids. I was wearing a lime green one piece swimming costume, not an especially revealing one, with fabric cups to keep my nipples covered. Cleavage was unavoidable, though. I was wearing denim shorts for extra coverage from the waist down, too, so I looked very much like the mum-of-two on holiday.

That's why I didn't give his look any thought. All men seemed to notice my tits, but Chuck looked about twenty and was hardly going to be interested in a random middle-aged woman to whom he was serving drinks. In any case, I wasn't interested in him, nor was I about to open up to him about the reason for the double vodkas.

"Yeah, pretty much," I said, and he smiled, nodded, and after passing me the second drink, he walked off to the other end of the bar to chat to a couple of older American women in floppy hats and those peculiar three-quarter length trousers that American women seemed to love to wear when they were abroad. Capri pants, I think. They lapped him up, complimenting him and flirting gently, while he poked fun at them and flexed his biceps so they could touch and see how hard the muscles were. He did have nice arms; not the biceps so much as his thick, hairless forearms, roped with tendons, the kind of arms you expected to see hauling boxes, not serving drinks. And he was good-looking, too, although you could tell he knew it. Plus, you know what they say about black guys and their equipment down below. I blushed to myself and tried not to think about it. He was far too young for that, and it was probably all made up anyway.

I'm not a particularly heavy drinker, usually, but I could always hold my booze and by the time it was properly dark and all the other tourists had drifted off to their rooms, I was on my fourth drink and Chuck had been busy looking at his phone for the past hour. I wasn't even sure where my phone was. Probably in the room, no doubt, with Simon. At least he didn't know my passcode to unlock it.

"Same again?" Chuck asked, noticing when I tilted the glass right back to drain it.

I knew I shouldn't, the hangover would be killer, but I was past caring. With nobody else around, Chuck didn't even bother measuring the vodka, he just glugged it straight into the glass.

"No orange juice," I said as he reached into the fridge for it.

"You want something else? Or just straight vodka?" he asked, his hand hovering over the juice.

"Just how it is."

I could barely taste it anyway, and to be honest neat vodka wasn't the worst. Reminded me of being seventeen and riding around in the back of some guy's tatty car, drinking supermarket vodka from the bottle and hanging out in deserted car parks. Sounded awful, looking back, but something about the freedom of it all made me nostalgic.

"Do you mind if I join you? I'm not supposed to, but the bar doesn't close for two more hours and Mondays are always dead," Chuck said, not waiting for an answer before slapping a highball glass down on the bar and pouring his own vodka, neat. "Well, at this time of year most nights are dead, come to think of it."

I shrugged. Like I said, I was past caring at this stage.

"Cheers, as you Brits say." Chuck grinned, clinking his glass against mine. I sipped but he downed his, before coughing and spitting half of it into the sink.

"Oh boy, that's disgusting," he said, wiping his mouth on a towel. "I have no clue how you're drinking it like that."

I smiled gently. Not because I was in any way flattered, but because of the way he said 'oh boy'. Once again, nobody in Luton would ever say 'oh boy'.

"What's your name? I'm Chuck," he said, in the direct way that Americans had. I could probably have drunk at this bar all week and never asked his name quite happily.

"I'm Nat."

"Nat? What's that short for? Natasha?"

"Natalie."

"Natalie, huh," he said, trying it out. The way he said it was like neh-duh-lee, instead of how I said it, nah-tah-lee. "Nat. Makes you sound like an old guy, no offence."

I gave him a look and sipped my drink again, silently.

"You know, like, 'Nat and Paul are going fishing down at the lake', or something like that. You wouldn't get a gal named Nat doing something like, say, dancing on a table."

I stared at him. "Dancing on a table?" I asked, bewildered, and he laughed, pouring himself a rum and coke and stirring in brown sugar.

"I'm just saying, Nat's an old person's name. Natalie is cute, though."

"Cute," I repeated, mulling it over. I felt like there was an undercurrent of mocking going on here, behind his words. But he seemed genuine and let out a satisfied 'ahh' when he took a drink of his rum.

"Don't you want one of these? They're all included in the room package," he said, pointing to his drink. "Much nicer than what you're drinking."

I shook my head. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Your loss." He had more of his drink and we sat in silence for a few seconds before he spoke again.

"Tallie."

"What?"

"Tallie. Now that's a cute name. That's what you should call yourself."

Everyone, from my mum to Simon to my friends and even my boss called me Nat. Natalie was what someone called me when they'd never met me before. Never in my life had I been called 'Tallie'. Same as 'hon'.

"I don't think so."

"Suit yourself. Tallie would dance on a table, that's for sure."

I couldn't decide if Chuck was amusing or annoying. But talking to him was keeping my mind off Simon and I appreciated that.

"So where in England are you from, Tallie?" Chuck went on, swirling the ice in his glass.

"Luton." I ignored the 'Tallie' thing.

"Never heard of it. Is it one of them towns with a little park in the middle, and tiny little cottages everywhere? Like, uh, Stratford. Shakespeare's town, you know?"

I laughed. "It's the opposite of that. Think graffiti, blocks of flats and despair."

He looked puzzled. "Despair?"

"I think you'd call it something like a craphole."

He laughed. He had a good laugh, instant and infectious. "We got a good few crapholes back in Florida," he said. "I think I catch your drift."

"Have you ever been to England?"

"No, not once. I would like to, though. See if Lyton is as bad as you say."

"Luton," I corrected him.

He made himself another rum and sugar and coke or whatever it was. "How do you like the resort?" He looked at me, apparently genuinely interested and not just making small talk.

"Not sure, only arrived this morning," I said. "Nice so far."

"I should tell you, my dad is Charles Waters. You know, the Waters in the name of the resort. He owns it."

Waters Bahamas Resort. I remembered it from the brochure Simon had shown me before he booked. Charles Waters was the old, grey-bearded black guy on the front cover, in a light-coloured suit, shaking hands and welcoming guests with a big smile.

"So you're Chuck Waters," I said.

"As I live and breathe. I mean, I'm really Charles Waters, junior, but that sounds too old and fussy."

"Like Nat?"

"Now you're getting it." We clinked glasses.

"If your dad owns this place, why are you working behind the bar?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

Chuck gave a hollow laugh. "Now that's a long story."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Maybe another night. I don't feel like digging into the whole tragedy of my life now, I'm enjoying myself too much."

I smiled. Chuck was surprisingly nice, for a youngish bloke working behind a bar. Well, I suppose that should be: future millionaire working behind a bar.

"So, Tallie, what about you? Have you had enough alcohol to open up about your tragic life?"

I shrugged. "Maybe another night."

He grinned. "I guess I deserved that. Come on, you're married, right?"

I wiggled my ring finger. "Five years this year."

His hand caught hold of mine and he examined my wedding and engagement rings under the low light of the bar. "Well, no offence, hon, but that diamond doesn't look too big to me. You shoulda held out."

"You don't look like an expert on engagement rings to me," I pointed out.

"Fair point. In any case, I hear that everything's bigger in America anyway."

I giggled. "Including engagement rings, apparently."

He let go of my hand and I returned it to my glass, leaning forward on the bar now we were talking more.

"And you've got kids, right?"

"Two, both girls."

"Tell me," he said, looking conspiratorial. "Is it true that girls are easier than boys?"

"I don't think so. You know where you stand with boys: they fall out, they fight, they make up. My two can feud for weeks over the slightest thing."

He looked sorry for me. "Are they doing that right now?"

"No, they're generally best friends when we're on holiday."

"I'm an only child so I don't know what it's like having siblings," Chuck said, lifting up his glass so he could whip a bar towel underneath it and soak up the condensation. "But I could definitely have imagined myself beating the crap out of a younger brother or something."

"Well, your parents are probably pleased they stopped at one."

"You bet. So, mom-of-two Tallie, married five years, let me guess what you do when you're not on vacation... Stay-at-home mom?"

I laughed wryly. "If only."

"So it's not a job you love... car sales?"

"You really think I sell cars?"

He nodded. "You don't have lady car salesmen over there?"

"I suppose we do. But, no, that's not it."

"This is a tough one, then. A nurse?"

I shook my head. "No, you're not even close."

"Alright, I give up."

"I work in a call centre."

He looked at me for a minute, thinking this over. "So you're the person who answers when I call to say, 'Hey, my internet's not working'?"

"More or less. I'm actually a Team Manager, which means a quid an hour more and an extra day's holiday, but I still answer the phones."

Chuck nodded sagely. "Well, that is awesome, Team Manager Tallie." He put down his drink and mimed picking up an old-fashioned telephone. "Good evening, this is Team Manager Tallie, how can I help you today?"

As he looked at me with a big, fake smile, once again I was reminded how hard it was to tell whether he was just trying to be nice or whether he was making fun of me.

"Very funny," I said, deadpan.

"C'mon, show me how it's done."

"No chance."

He finished his drink, laughing to himself. "You're a tough customer. Anyway, I think that's it for tonight, the bar should've closed ten minutes ago." He double-checked the time on his phone as I steadily finished my drink, the vodka not burning so much as soothing at this point.

"Thank you, see you again," Chuck said as he took my empty glass and I climbed down off the bar stool, pleasantly surprised to discover I didn't feel as drunk as I thought I would.

"No, thank you," I replied, then wondered why I'd said it.

"Same time tomorrow? Or is it your husband's turn for a night off?" Chuck asked.

"We'll see."

"So long, Tallie."

Tuesday

It rained on Tuesday and, denied the chance of playing in the pool all day, the girls had to make do with the toys they'd brought with them and a fraught, two-hour visit to the indoor pool. Which, naturally, was where every other family had decided to come, and was the very thing to make my hangover ten times worse. Simon said the noise was giving him a headache and went back to the room early, and I seethed silently at him through dinner whilst he pretended not to notice.

"Good evening madam, how may I assist you tonight?" Chuck said in an execrable attempt at a British accent when I arrived back at the bar. He was already reaching for the vodka, though, so I just added, "Orange juice, too."

Before he picked up the carton, he made his hand into a phone and spoke into it. "Your call is very important to us, please hold the line," he intoned, and I rolled my eyes.

"What's got your panties in a bunch?" Chuck finally said, after I'd stared moodily at the drink for five minutes without touching it. "Last night you couldn't get enough of that stuff."

"Just don't ask," I replied, not looking at him, and he took the hint, strolling to the other end of the bar and scrolling on his phone, leaving me in peace. The rain had turned to a very light drizzle and while I was mired in my black cloud, it finally stopped, and I was roused by the noise of Chuck retracting the rain covers from above the bar.

"If I leave them out they get damaged by the wind," he explained, even though I hadn't asked. It was still warm outside and Chuck was wearing a white vest and basketball shorts, his feet bare and flip-flops discarded at my end of the bar. All of his exposed skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat which reflected the bar lights, giving him a kind of marbled effect. My post-pool high-necked t-shirt, which was an old one I kept with my swimming kit, and jeans already felt a bit warm and I had only been able to give my hair the most basic of washes, so it felt crunchy and I did my best to ignore it.

"Another?" Chuck asked, a note of politeness in his voice for a change, when I had finally mustered the courage to drink my first one.

"Yes," I said, and with the relaxed air of an expert Chuck fixed up another glass and handed it over. He turned on his heel to go back to the far end of the bar, which was now empty with it having been a wet day, and back to his seat and his phone.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, earlier," I said, clearing my throat, and Chuck paused, theatrically, arms frozen in mid-air.

"Don't worry about it," Chuck said, looking over his shoulder at me. "But I did report you to my father. You can expect to be evicted in the morning."

I laughed slightly, still not quite feeling up to Chuck's energy levels. He relaxed and turned, leaning on the bar opposite me and looking at me. I glanced at him, felt embarrassed, and looked away. He was staring with a kind of intensity at me.

"What?" I finally asked, laughing to try and break the tension.

"Chuck's Crystal Ball," he said, standing up straight and cracking a bar towel against the bar top. "Today, you've been to the indoor pool."

"You hardly need a crystal ball to tell that, I probably stink of chlorine."

Chuck held up a finger. "What's more, that place is a zoo when it's raining out, so I'm thinking that bottle of vodka you had last night didn't prepare you very well for twenty screaming kids."

"Har har," I said, sarcastically, sipping my drink and telling myself this would be my last one for tonight. "What else, mystic Chuck?"

"I'm thinking... a marital row, too?"

He looked at me but I ignored him.

"That's none of your business."

He backed away a couple of steps. "You're right," he agreed, then went back to his phone. We sat in silence while I slowly had my drink, my whole body feeling tired and exhausted and the alcohol not really helping. I wanted something to shake my bad mood, a piece of good news or a dance to a really good song on the radio, but the only entertainment on offer was Chuck's special brand, and I'd made it obvious I couldn't hold a conversation without being a bitch.

"Numbrero three?" Chuck asked at last, and I slid my glass along the bar to him, indefatigably chipper.

"You should be cutting me off. For my own good," I said, sighing and leaning my arms on the bar, putting my head on them and wondering if I could sleep here. No, the stool was too uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, it's resort policy to continue giving guests alcohol until they crack at least one smile," Chuck said, and we shared a smile. "There it is."

"You're too optimistic," I said, stirring the ice in my third drink around with my little finger.

"Have you considered that maybe you're too pessimistic?" Chuck countered.

"You're probably right. I'm even sick of orange juice, and there's no more optimistic drink than orange juice," I said, looking at the bright yellow liquid in my glass.

In a flash, Chuck had whipped it away from me. "What do you reckon, pineapple? Cranberry? Peach? Or just vodka neat again?" he asked, pouring my drink away before I could protest. "Which one matches your mood? I'm thinking you're in a cranberry kind of place."

"Definitely not cranberry."

"That bad?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I just want a drink."

Chuck scooped a handful of cartons out of the fridge and haphazardly added a bit from each into a glass, before adding a large measure of vodka and handing it to me. "Here, we'll call it Chuck's Rainbow Special. Guaranteed to put a smile on your face."

I sipped it. "That's disgusting."

He swapped it for a glass containing nothing but ice and vodka. "Chuck's Tallie Special. Guaranteed to put a frown on your face."

"Thanks." I wasn't quite sure when this had become my signature drink but I forced it down anyway.

Chuck picked up the Rainbow Special and took a sip of his own. "Oh, not bad, actually. I could drink this." He grinned at me and, despite myself, I could feel my spirits lifting. Maybe I could manage to not be a bitch after all.

"I know you're just being nice because it's your job, but thank you," I said, and we clinked glasses.

"I'm being nice because I like you, Tallie," he said, forcefully. "Trust me, if I didn't like you, I'd be watering down your drinks like I'm supposed to."

"I suppose you've got no fear of the sack because of your dad?"

"You mean getting fired? No way. I've fallen so far that Dad could never fire me from this without accepting I'll never get a job. I'm a born bum, you see."

His vest had a logo on it and underneath it were the words 'CLEARWATER DANCE ACADEMY'. It was heavily faded and I pointed to it. "You went to a dance academy?"

He looked down, seeming confused, then the penny dropped. "Oh, it's kindof a joke."

"Are you going to explain it?"

He seemed reluctant. "It's not really that funny. I spent two years at a college called Clearwater Deerhurst-Atlantic, which is a dumb name anyway as Clearwater isn't next to the Atlantic. Anyway, it wasn't really a good school and everyone just spent their time partying, getting wasted and going to the beach, and a bunch of girls started calling it Clearwater Dance Academy, you know, 'C-D-A', because all the girls were going to become dancers after college."