‘That’s weird,’ I say under my breath.
‘What is?’ Jay asks. I’d not realised he was still standing there.
‘Oh, it’s a cancellation for the Hunks.’ I try to make it sound less dramatic than it is. The hotel that’s cancelled has been booking us for years. Only last week the manager was talking about slotting in some more gigs soon. It makes no sense.
‘I’m sure there’s a good reason,’ Jay says optimistically.
‘Yeah, he just says that holiday bookings are down on last year and he can’t afford to staff the large auditorium through the winter season. It will be fine,’ I add, not wanting to worry him in his first few days of employment. He nods in agreement and not wanting to get caught in his headlamp eyes again, I turn to leave.
‘Goodnight, Jay,’ I say, before heading up to my apartment.
***
Despite having such a terrible night’s sleep last night and being absolutely shattered, I still find myself tossing and turning, replaying the incident with Billy in my head.
To take my mind off things, I pick my phone up and start scrolling through mundane Facebook updates to try and empty my head. There are a few posts that make me sit up straight.
RIP Tommy xxx
Best lad. You’ll be missed, brother xxx
Too young Tommy xxx
Tommy? Tom Mitchell? I rub my eyes and read the statuses again, then I click on the tagged name ‘Tommy’. Sure enough, it’s Tom Mitchell’s profile. He was in my year at secondary school. He was a bit of an idiot back then: the kind of kid who’d spread embarrassing rumours or call you a name just to get a laugh. He had everyone calling me ‘the minger’ for about six months but I wouldn’t wish death on him. He can only have been thirty-seven or thirty-eight. God. I sit back against the cheap imitation pine headboard and keep scrolling. There are hundreds of comments along the same lines. People are shocked, sad and so on. His last status was only a few days ago – he’d booked a holiday to Majorca with his wife and son.
‘Jesus,’ I say aloud.
I click on the local newspaper feed and look for any articles covering what happened. I know I shouldn’t – it’s morbid and none of my business whatsoever – but he was my age. I feel almost duty-bound to find out what’s out there killing people off so young. We’ve not hit heart-attack territory yet, and if his death was so sudden, I’m guessing it wasn’t a long-term illness.
Bingo.
Father of one, killed in collision at accident black spot
Local campaigners say it was only a matter of time before a fatal accident occurred on this popular A-road and expressed anger that local councillors ignored their campaign for traffic-calming measures last year.
‘Oh God.’
His profile picture is of him, his wife and his little boy, who looks about four. Poor thing, it’s going to be so hard for him to understand. Before I realise what I’m doing, I’m scrolling through Tom Mitchell’s photo albums. Going off his pictures, he had so much to live for. There are pictures of stag dos, nights out with huge groups of friends, him at several weddings, him sky diving, him and his wife at a quaint little Cotswolds’ spa. In the most normal and slightly enviable of ways, this guy really lived. It’s the life I thought I’d have with Iain. Sharing a life of minibreaks and experiences, perhaps even a few kids running around.
I put my phone down on the duvet. Tom looked to have had this wonderful life that’s now been torn apart. It’s heart-wrenching. I know I haven’t seen him in years and he was never really a friend at school but through the pictures, you can tell he had a lot to lose and his family will forever have a hole ripped out of it where he should be. To distract myself, I get up for a glass of water before sitting back down on the bed. Selfishly, I start to think of my own life. If I died right this minute, what would I have to show for it? To the outside world, I suppose the pictures of the dancers and me might look as though I’m living my best life but, really, I’m like their adoptive mother and those pictures generally mark some occasion, like Jay joining the troupe or Marcus’s birthday. My entire time here has been mostly work and very little play and if you look between the work pictures on any of my social media accounts, there are just stray cats and sunsets. Should I be thinking about doing something more? Having a focus that stretches beyond work?
I stare at the ceiling for a little while more but I’m wide awake now and can’t lie here any longer. Tommy’s death and the whole ‘questioning my own life choices’ thing is hardly the equivalent of swigging half a bottle of Nytol. After slipping on some shorts and a hoodie, I slip outside and walk down the steps to the small, glowing turquoise pool at the heart of the complex. I sit back on a plastic lounger, the cold of it beneath my still bed-warm skin makes my bones ache but the contrast to my warm, cosy bed is welcome. The air is cool with a hint of moisture in it, and goose bumps pop up on my legs but still, I refuse to go back inside. Instead, I welcome the lack of comfort as a distraction and relish the feeling of my head finally clearing with each deep breath I take. The water-churning sound of the pool filter is strangely therapeutic and as I close my eyes, my head clears and I start to nod off.
‘I know Europeans like to get up early to reserve sun loungers, but I think you’re playing it a bit too safe.’
I dart upright, eyes wide open.
‘Jay?’ My mouth is thick and dry with doziness and the syllable is a mouthful.
‘What are you doing out here?’ He sits down on the lounger next to mine and hands me his bottle of water, which I take gratefully. After a long sip, I rub dried drool off the corner of my mouth. Sexy!
‘I couldn’t sleep so came out for some air, which must have worked wonders.’ I laugh softly, handing him back the water.
‘Me neither. I head outside a lot during the night,’ he says. The droop of his shoulders and the way his eyes drift to the ground make me think there’s more to it than just a rough night’s sleep.
‘Is there something you want to talk about?’ I ask. If anything is bothering any of my boys, I want to know about it so I can help.
He shakes his head. ‘No, I’m fine. Just a bit of an insomniac. I’m really happy I came out here – to Tenerife, I mean – though I’m also happy I came out here tonight too.’
The bit he adds to the end jars me. What does he mean he’s happy he came out here tonight? Politeness. It has to be.
‘Good, but if anything does ever bother you, promise that you’ll talk to me,’ I say, ignoring what he said about being glad to be out here.
‘Will do. How about you? You’re out here in the middle of the night. What’s on your mind?’
I’m about to brush it off as he did, but when I glance at him, the moonlight catches his face and he’s looking at me with the burning intent of someone who actually wants to listen. It’s a strange feeling to trust someone who you hardly know, but it’s been a while since I opened up to anyone, so I try it for size.
I draw a deep breath. ‘Do you ever wonder if you’re truly satisfied with your life?’
He regards me for a moment, perhaps checking that I’m asking a serious question, and then lies back on his lounger and rolls onto his side to face me.