James fixes him with a hard stare. ‘Only alcoholics drink soft drinks, is that it?’
‘Alcoholics, pregnant women and children,’ Scott says, pleased with himself.
‘What about your vitamin-loving extremist health nuts, hmm?’ Lucy says, pulling some glasses off the hooks above her head and placing them on the bar.
Scott snorts. ‘Those people are the worst. Don’t you think vitamin-loving extremist health nuts doth protest too much? They are among the biggest hypocrites I’ve ever met – and I include law enforcement personnel and bankers in the swathes of humanity I’ve had the misfortune to meet.’
‘Wow,’ James says. ‘Cynical snake-oil salesman reveals true colours.’ He turns to Lucy. ‘How does that work for a headline?’
‘Boring. Because he’s right: it’s all the evangelistic green juice yoga monsters you need to be wary of. Usually the biggest coke fiends in the business . . . and I don’t mean the stuff you like in a glass bottle. Of course, there’s always the possibility that you’re drinking the soft stuff to keep a clear head . . . keep an eye on us, maybe.’ She winks at Amelia, then delves under the counter again and brings out a series of metal flasks. She swivels them round; each one has a label. Seven flasks, one for each of them. Including Giles, who hasn’t made it down yet.
Tiggy walks over and runs a finger along Giles’s flask. ‘I’m getting a bit worried about him now.’
‘Oh, he’ll be back soon enough,’ Scott says. He reaches for his own flask, but Lucy pulls it away.
‘I’ll serve, OK? I’ve got all the correct glasses.’ She starts to unscrew the flasks, sniffing the contents before pouring them into various shapes and sizes of glass, depending on the drink.
‘I’m guessing they didn’t psychically magic up my bottle of Coke then . . .’
‘Ta-da,’ Lucy says, tipping the head of the flask towards him. Then she sticks her fingers into the top and pulls out a bottle of Coke. ‘Guess again, sunshine.’
She pours Scott’s foamy pina colada into a long-stemmed goblet, garnishing it with a slice of pineapple. Scott grins. ‘No biggie. You all heard me ask for this.’
‘The Coke, though . . .’ Amelia says.
Lucy pours the contents of Amelia’s flask into a wine glass. It’s mostly orange, but there’s an unmistakable streak of red as the last of the dregs slide into the glass.
‘Woah,’ Scott says. ‘None of us heard you ask for that.’
‘So these trackers . . .’ James starts to say.
‘I don’t even have the proper one, though. I only have the wrist sensor.’
‘You can’t all still be thinking that these trackers are tapping into your neurons or whatever,’ Scott says, shaking his head. ‘You know it’s some kind of trick . . . or they looked up an interview with you online and got lucky.’
Amelia knows she’s never mentioned tequila sunrises in any interview she’s done, but she can’t be sure she hasn’t mentioned it somewhere. Social media, maybe. It wouldn’t be any surprise that the host had researched them all thoroughly. They’re some sort of tech company, after all. Maybe they’ve hacked their accounts.
‘I bet Giles’s is vodka Red Bull,’ Tiggy says. ‘He’s such a commoner when it comes to drinks.’ She pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts tapping away.
‘There’s no signal on that, is there?’ James says. He’s holding his Coke but he hasn’t taken a sip yet.
Tiggy nods. ‘No phone signal, but I seem to be connected to a Wi-Fi network. My calls go through that when there’s no reception.’
‘Have you tried ringing lover boy then?’ Lucy says, unscrewing the lid of Giles’s flask.
‘No. I don’t want to talk to him yet. I’ve just sent him an angry message instead.’
Lucy sniffs. ‘Urgh, you’re right about the drink. I hate the smell of that stuff.’ She screws the lid on and goes back to pouring the remaining drinks – all of them correctly guessed.
They are still pondering that when Tiggy’s phone pings.
‘“See you soon, babe,”’ she reads off the screen for them. ‘“Sorry. You know I can explain.” Three kisses.’ She scowls. ‘Right, well, now that I know he’s OK, he can bloody well stay away. I’m having a drink.’
‘Cheers to that,’ Scott says. They all raise their glasses.
Amelia takes a long gulp, savouring the orange and the tequila kick, and the sweet tang of the syrup. She instantly feels more relaxed. The others are quiet now, all enjoying their drinks. Amelia looks around at the bay – sunloungers, paddleboards, a rolled-up net next to a couple of bats and balls. The sand is deep, the water clear. On the other side, another path snakes its way up a hill lined with long grass. Finally, everyone seems content.
‘Well,’ Tiggy says, draining her drink, ‘I wonder how long we’ll be allowed to enjoy this place before the next part of the game?’
Summer 2000
She stops running when she reaches the bay. Her lungs and her leg muscles burn, and she has to put a hand on the wall of the shop to stop herself from collapsing. After a few moments, her breath starts to return to normal. But her face still feels hot and her heart is still thumping too hard.
She’s meant to be back for dinner soon. But how is she going to eat after what she’s just done? She steps away from the wall and walks around to the door of the shop. She knows what to do. She was told the first time she came here without her parents that if there was ever a problem of any kind, she was to go to the shop and they would help her.
The shop door is open, stands filled with buckets and spades lining the route inside. She takes a few tentative steps, spots the nice lady behind the counter who always adds an extra piece of fudge or an extra couple of Fruit Salad chews when she goes in for a mixed bag. The lady has a kind face. The lady will help.
She’s almost at the counter when a man knocks into her as he passes. ‘Get out of the way, girl,’ he says, angrily pushing a bag of bread rolls across the counter.
She stands behind him, shaking. She doesn’t like this man. Something about him gives her a bad feeling. She doesn’t wait for him to turn round. She just walks out of the shop. Outside, she smacks right into a pale, skinny boy and he springs back from her, a terrified look on his face.
‘Sorry . . .’ she mutters, wondering for a moment why he looks so spooked, but not caring enough to stop and find out.
She walks quickly back to her grandparents’ cottage, bursts in the door, hot-faced and sweating, and says, ‘Please, I’m too homesick. I don’t want to stay here for another week. I feel sick. I want my mum. Please, can I go back home?’
Brenda
Brenda tries to get comfortable on one of the sunloungers, but it’s either too upright or too flat, and every time she swings her legs over the side to twist around and adjust it, a shooting pain travels up her thigh. She makes one final attempt to get the lounger to stay where she wants it, then, realising it’s the best she can do without drawing attention to herself, she swings her legs back one final time and picks up her drink.