Page 27 of Not in a Million Years

I glanced at my watch. It was coming up to four o’clock, the hottest part of the day. Vast clouds hovered over the mountains but seemed unable to scale their peaks, giving no shade or promise of rain.

I wished I’d worn a hat. And put sunblock on my neck. And chosen more comfortable shoes. And stayed at home, instead of embarking on this futile mission.

Actually, what I really wished was that Andy had stayed at home in the first place, safe in his bijou apartment in Manchester, leaving voice notes for me on WhatsApp, so none of this palaver would have been necessary and I could have got the train up there and given him a massive hug and taken him out for afternoon tea at The Edwardian.

‘Come on then,’ I said to Daniel, shaking myself out of my thoughts. ‘Let’s do it.’

Daniel turned down the narrow street. Twenty minutes and eight cats later (I’d started counting them, after lunch. It seemed as good a way as any to pass the time, given neither of us had much to offer in the way of sparkling conversation), we reached the place.

The previous few had been modest establishments, small and inexpensive looking. This was something else again – a glitzy resort with its five-star rating prominently displayed on the low stone wall that surrounded it. We walked through glass doors into blissful, air-conditioned cold and were immediately approached by a waiter bearing a tray with two glasses of fruit juice on it, their sides frosted with condensation, flanked by napkins twisted into the shape of swans.

Welcome to honeymoon central, I thought sourly.

‘We’re not…’ I began, but the waiter smiled and extended his tray towards us. The temptation was too much for me and I took a glass and sipped gratefully. The juice was sweet but also slightly tangy – passionfruit, maybe? Daniel downed the contents of his in a few long swallows, and together we approached the reception desk.

‘Good afternoon.’ The dark-haired woman behind it smiled as warmly as her colleague. ‘How may I help you?’

‘We’re trying to find our friend,’ I began the familiar spiel, taking out my phone and showing her the screen. ‘Any chance he’s been staying here?’

For the first time that afternoon, I felt a sense of genuine hope – this was Andy’s kind of place. I hadn’t been able to picture him in any of the modest two-star guesthouses, but I one hundred per cent could imagine him here.

But the woman shook her head, an expression of blank puzzlement on her face.

Then her eyes widened, and she spun her wheeled chair around and said a few words in Turkish.

Another woman appeared from the back office, and the two of them conferred rapidly, their faces bent over the screen, their eyes occasionally flickering up to sneak a glance at Daniel.

‘We think maybe we saw him,’ the first woman explained. ‘He’s not staying here, but my friend thinks she might know where he was staying. It was one week ago, maybe more.’

Her colleague hurried away again, and we waited. I finished my juice and returned the glass to the waiter, then leaned my arms gratefully on the cool, polished wood of the reception counter.

The second woman emerged again, holding a printed brochure which she handed to her colleague with a few words of Turkish.

‘We think maybe you could try here,’ her friend explained, handing over the brochure.

It was an A4 sheet folded into three. On the front were the words ‘Wild Maple Eco Resort’. I flipped it open and saw pictures of people hiking up a mountainside, a swimming pool that appeared hewn out of natural rock, hands massaging a woman’s back. It was printed on the kind of recycled paper that has bits in it.

‘Thank you,’ Daniel said. ‘You’ve been incredibly helpful. We’ll give it a try.’

‘It’s up in the mountains,’ the woman warned. ‘Maybe five kilometres? They don’t allow cars up there to protect the…’ Her excellent English exhausted, she waved a hand vaguely towards the doors.

‘The environment?’ Daniel suggested.

‘Yes. The ecology,’ she said, smiling at him.

Daniel smiled back, and for a second, the two of them held each other’s eyes. I felt a fresh flare of resentment. I was sweaty, sunburned and bedraggled, with blisters on my feet, while he still looked as fresh as he had at breakfast, his legs beneath his khaki shorts beginning to tan slightly, his white T-shirt unmarked by sweat.

‘Please thank your colleague for us, too,’ he said, handing over some cash.

The woman waved it away, but he insisted. I added my thanks, and we pushed the door open again, the heat meeting us like a slap in the face.

‘This feels like progress,’ Daniel said, grinning.

‘Really? I’m not sure. Can you imagine Andy staying at a place like that?’

We looked at each other. I was remembering all the times Andy had joked about vegetarians being lettuce-botherers, moaned about climate-change protestors blocking the motorway when he was trying to drive from Manchester to London to see us, complained about the relentless tedium of sorting out his recycling.

‘Well, people change,’ Daniel said firmly. ‘And anyway, maybe Ash is into all that stuff, and Andy went along with it to impress him. Anyway, let’s get back. I don’t know about you, but I’m not up for heading there today.’

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