Page 12 of Harper's Holiday Romance
“Oh, wow.”
I was the first to admit my general knowledge wasn’t the best. Nobody wanted me on their team at quiz night, unless the quiz was about the TV programmeMarried at First Sight, Animals, 2000s R&B music, or candles; on those topics I might stand a chance. I had a strong sense of smell and an extraordinary talent for guessing the fragrance notes of almost any candle.
The two women began comparing sun tans. Christina was a clear winner.
“I had to go on the tanning beds for two hundred minutes to get a base tan because my usual skin colour is luminous green,” Tracy projected around the pool area. I chuckled. She was funny.
Christina climbed into the pool to soak her sunburnt shoulders. “I’d be asking for a refund,” she bellowed.
“Have you guys tried the buffet restaurant for dinner?” Tracy directed the question at Sarah, who’d reluctantly removed a headphone to join in.
“No, is it good?”
“It’s so good. They have nachos, and they have that nice hot cheese, you know, the one that’s like a sauce, and they have fresh guacamole and salsa. I think theguacamole is homemade. I make guacamole, and that certainly wasn’t store bought. I could eat it again right now, maybe not for breakfast though! I’ll wait until lunch.” The words came out in a hurry. I liked Tracy. She seemed sweet.
“Nachos covered in hot cheese?” Billies ears pricked up. “I like nachos.”
Billie remarkably managed to cram the food intake of a three-hundred-pound bodybuilder into her slender, sporty, five-foot-five frame. I’d seen it firsthand, and she made sure she got her money’s worth when it came to the all-inclusive food.
A short, rounded, middle-aged waiter approached. He had a kind face and flawless skin. It must’ve been the Mexican sun because I was yet to see a member of the hotel staff with a blemish.
“Can I get you some drinksseñoritas?” He directed the question at the group, but Christina spoke first.
“Yeah!” she proclaimed.
“Yes, please,” Tracy corrected.
“Sorry, please.”
“She gets excited,” Tracy excused her enthusiastic friend. I got the impression she did that often.
“Have you guys tried the Caesar?” Christina asked.
“Yes, I love a Caesar salad,” Sarah proclaimed. “They’re my favourite.”
Tracy and Christina laughed. “No, not the salad, the drink.”
My face was just as confused as Sarah’s.
“The drink?” I asked.
“It’s a cocktail we have in Canada; it’s my favourite. It’s basically vodka, clam-infused tomato juice, hot sauce, and Worcestershire sauce. It’s so good.”
It sounded like apunishment.
“It sounds interesting. I guess it’s a bit like a Bloody Mary, right?” I asked.
I tried a Bloody Mary once, never again. It reminded me of the kind of drink you’re forced to inhale during a fruit cleanse and not the nice kale and apple one, which I could just about stomach. I tried a juice cleanse when I was twenty-three and failed miserably. It started off great; I managed to neatly stow away the bottles; I even managed to defrost them in time; that was the extent of my success. After the initial ginger shot that was supposed to boost my metabolism and awaken my tastebuds, I gave up. It did the complete opposite. It didn’t make my breakfast more enjoyable because all I could taste was ginger roughly making its way down my throat and clinging on to every tastebud I didn’t know I had.
“I’ll have whatever that is.” I pointed towards a different waiter on the other side of the pool. He made his way around the disorganised sun beds with a large hurricane shaped glass filled with an orange and red liquid.
“That’s a mango-tango; we had one earlier, also, fantastic,” Christina added. She reached up from the pool handing her empty glass to the waiter. I liked mango and I liked tango, regardless of whether either of those two things were in the drink. I decided to give it a go.
A handful of drinks later, following several interesting conversations about Canada’s cost of living, how to play lacrosse, and our joint love for mac and cheese, I discovered The King, as in England’s King Charles III, was also Canada’s King. I thought it was a joke. It took Billie Googling the proof for me to move on from the conversation.
Who knew? Well, apparently everyone but me, for whom history was officially in the same camp as geography.
Christina impressively necked her drink in one. I’d given up asking what concoction she was trying next after the first two drinks could only be described as hell in a glass; I realised we had very little in common when fluids were involved. She started to entertain our section of the pool quite naturally.
