Page 6 of One Hot Summer

As I finally gave in to his body’s demands, I climbed back on top of him and we began to move together, quickly. The headboard banged against the wall, making the bed vibrate beneath us. We both moaned as things began to feel good.

“Jenny…” he called out, loudly.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling my orgasm about to rip through me as he said my name. “Oh, yeah.”

The room seemed to shake as the bed bounced harder and harder.

“Jenny!” He said it louder, but firmer. Not like someone who was enjoying themselves.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Jenny!” he shouted, with a more feminine voice…

“Jenny!?” Sarah’s voice bellowed at me as I finally opened my eyes. “For God’s sake, will you wake up from your bloody sex dreams? The plane has landed.”

Flushed, I surveyed my surroundings, aware that everyone around me would have heard my nocturnal rendezvous with my absent boyfriend. Other passengers had begun to crowd the aisles of the narrow plane. The ones who weren’t staring at me, giggling at Sarah’s wake-up call, were getting their coats and bags from the overhead storage as the stewardesses looked on in frustration. People were always in a rush to grab their things once the plane landed, but I never could understand why. It’s not like our luggage is ever waiting for us as soon as we exit. I could guarantee it would be another hour before we would leave the airport.

“How long was I snoozing?” I asked Sarah, rubbing my eyes and hoping I wasn’t making too many sexual noises in my sleep.

“I’m not sure. A while. How can you even sleep on a plane? It’s so uncomfortable.” She rubbed her neck. “And how on earth did you manage to sleep through a plane landing? Couldn’t you feel us being thrown about? It was quite rough.”

I laughed to myself. “I guess I’m just naturally gifted at being able to sleep anywhere.” I stretched out my arms, and my elbows clicked. I didn’t want to tell her I was exhausted because Zack and I had been up all the night before having wild sex to prepare for not seeing each other for the next few days. We had not been apart for this long in the nine months we’d been together. “I can’t wait to get up and stretch my legs. Three hours is a long time to sit still. I’m bursting for a wee.”

“You could have just used the airplane loos, you know. You didn’t need to hold it in all this time.”

“I don’t use airplane loos,” I said, thinking back to the first time I had attempted it. We were on our shameful flight home from Zante where the previous night’s alcohol intake came back with a vengeance and I was violently vomiting my insides into the plane toilets. Sarah thought I was insane when I told her I was sure I could feel air blowing on my face from the loo itself. I got paranoid I was going to get sucked out. After that, a fear of aeroplane facilities took over and I have never dared to use them again. Long haul flights were out of the question.

“Look, you’re thirty-one now. I think it’s perfectly acceptable to put irrational fears to one side, and have a bloody wee on a plane.”

“And get sucked out through the plumbing when I flush it? No thanks.”

“Shut up.” I nudged her with my shoulder as she laughed. It was great hearing her laugh. It had been a rough time for her, and this holiday would be the distraction she needed.

We were eventually let off the plane. We followed the crowd through the airport via the hour-long queues at passport control, a quick visit to the toilets, and then finally to find our luggage, which was already spinning on the carousel when we arrived.

“Oh, mine, mine, sorry, excuse me.” Sarah politely pushed past an older couple to grab her bag, which was making its way around to the other side, grabbing it just in time. Mine wasn’t too far behind.

“Well, that went smoothly,” she observed as we wheeled our cases to the exit.

“A sign of good times ahead,” I promised as we stepped out into the Italian air. The sun was shining down, and the sky was a clear sea of blue. “I don’t think it’s too far from here into Rome itself. Do you want to attempt the train or get a taxi?”

“Let’s get a taxi,” Sarah said. “It’ll be easier, and we can figure out the public transport system later.”

We made our way over to the first taxi that was waiting in the rank. I showed the driver the slip of paper with our hotel details on.

“Can you take us there, please?”

“Prego, prego!” he said, helping to put our luggage into the boot of the car, and gesturing for us to take our seats.

“What did he call you?” Sarah laughed as we climbed into the back seats together, and it wasn’t long until we were on our way.

If it were possible to eat a smell, then I would have been munching on the air. As we drove through the roads of Rome with the windows down, one nostril was overdosing on freshly ground coffee and the other was having a foodgasm from freshly cooked pizza dough. I had officially reached food heaven.

Sarah and I arrived at our hotel after a somewhat terrifying taxi ride from the airport. We should have just taken the train like every other tourist who values their life. I’m surprised the doors didn’t fall off their hinges as we hit a cobbled street, and the driver definitely overcharged us.

Despite the cost of the taxi, there were to be no expenses spared on this holiday. Seeing as this June weekend should have been Sarah’s wedding to Max The Wanker, we decided to splash out over the next few days so the month of June will never need to be as tainted by heartbreaking memories. We had a full plan for this break. Sarah would have a wonderful time, even if it killed me. Judging from previous holiday experiences with Sarah, I’m not exaggerating.

We were staying at a small, family-run hotel at the edge of the centre of Rome. The elderly owner Leonardo was approximately four feet tall, and the cutest little Italian man I had ever met. He had a permanent smile on his olive-skinned face, with a bushy moustache that circled around his mouth. His shiny, bald head reflected the sun, and it did not seem to matter how hot it was, he wore a clean white shirt buttoned to the top, and a silver tie pinned to his shirt. His wife Maria was just as tiny as her husband, but as terrifying as a tiger that hadn’t eaten for days. She was like a yappy Yorkshire terrier snapping at your feet. A floral scarf was hiding her hair and she wore a matching apron, making her look like the Italian equivalent of Nora Batty. She handed us biscotti as we arrived, which we felt obliged to eat in front of her, fearing we would be scolded if we refused.

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