The Mini Break (2 page)

‘You need to relax, Sophie,’ Anisha tells me, breaking my train of thought. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

‘How can I relax when I’m supposed to be playing golf tomorrow at a level that appears to be extremely high, when in reality I wouldn’t know one end of a club from my elbow? Or
arse. Oh, you know what I mean. Why did you say we had handicaps of six and seven anyway? Couldn’t you have said something less impressive?’

‘I had no idea they were impressive at the time – I just blurted two numbers out to Nigel. I was thinking on my feet. Anyway, don’t worry . . . I’ve got it all sussed
out.’ She leans in drunkenly, taps her nose and winks – hoping, I can only presume, to imbue a sense of confidence.

‘Got all what sussed out?’

She leans back with a satisfied smile. ‘We don’t have to play golf tomorrow, Sophie. We’ll be just fine.’

‘But I thought—’

‘Leave it to me. You don’t need to worry about a thing.’

I take a deep breath and go to put my phone away.

‘Though you might want to do a bit more swotting up. We don’t want to look
completely
hopeless.’

Completely hopeless is not the term that comes to mind the following morning. Completely hungover does.

I peel my cheek off an eight-hundred-thread-count pillow, wondering why we couldn’t bring ourselves to stop drinking until the early hours, as the phone on the bedside table between us
springs into ear-splitting life. I leap up with a pounding heart as my brain goes into melt-down. ‘Should I answer that?’ I gasp, apparently unable to think for myself.

‘What? Eh?’ Anisha appears from under her sheet like one of the undead rising from its grave. ‘Of course!’ she shrieks, reaching over and grabbing the receiver.
‘Ugh . . . hello. Sorry . . . we got caught up at breakfast. We’ll be right down.’

I look at the clock. We’re officially late, my mouth is too dry to form words and, judging by the state of my hair, I appear to have done battle with a belligerent bird of prey during the
night. I have a horrible feeling this may set the tone for the rest of the day.

Given our preposterous state of dishevelment, I’d estimate that it would take a good hour and a half to get myself into an even vaguely presentable state. As it is, we
have seven and a half minutes to perform our ablutions and pull on the new golfing gear we bought in the hotel shop before it closed last night. Unsurprisingly, I’d never shopped for golfing
gear before, but I knew it was possible to do so stylishly, because I’ve seen Catherine Zeta-Jones in
Hello!

I glance in the mirror and am hit by the bombshell that I do not look like Catherine Zeta-Jones. I look like a pink version of Ronnie Corbett: all Fair Isle triangles, pulled up socks and shorts
whose crapness seems directly proportional to their cost.

When we arrive at the pro shop, James is there, gorgeous, fresh-smelling, eager to greet us. By contrast, I feel as though I’ve climbed out of a compost heap.

‘Nice breakfast?’ he asks. My stomach answers before I do, growling loudly. ‘Delicious!’ I cough.

‘Great. Let’s get your clubs sorted then. There are just a few forms to fill out first.’

He hands us a list of questions that make my head spin, many of which I have no idea how to answer. Fortunately, most require only yes or no answers – a 50/50 multiple choice that even I
can have a go at. I travel down the list, randomly ticking and crossing before handing the form back.

‘You’ve had heart bypass surgery?’ he asks.

‘Oh – my mistake,’ I say, grabbing back the form and correcting it.

James leads us to another room where we’re each assigned a set of golf clubs. Anisha examines her bag before bending down and heaving it up, looking and sounding as though she’s
popping a hernia in the process.

James frowns. ‘It’s usually better like this,’ he says, helping it onto her back as her floral Cath Kidston rucksack drops to the floor.

She grins uneasily. ‘Of course! I usually have someone to do this for me,’ she mutters, as if she’s Tiger Woods. She then proceeds to place the golf bag back on the floor and
– presumably in a bid to streamline her belongings – starts tipping the contents of her rucksack into it, a process it’s clear she didn’t fully think through as lip balms
and key cards clatter to the bottom.

James maintains a polite silence, before leading us out into bright sunlight to the golf buggy park, where he flips a key out of his pocket. ‘Who’s driving?’

Anisha swallows.

‘She is,’ we say in unison.

He laughs. ‘Funny, blokes always fight to be the driver.’

I glare at Anisha, hoping to make her telepathically aware of my view on this issue: that there is no bloody way I’m driving that thing. It took me three goes to pass my driving test and,
five years later, I’ve still got my provisional plates on in the hope that any ill-advised manoeuvres command pity rather than anger.

She caves under pressure. ‘So do we normally, Sophie’s just being polite. I’ll do it,’ she shrugs, taking the key from him.

He smiles and doesn’t move.

‘Bye then,’ she says.

He hesitates. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it then. Have a fabulous day. I’m going to check in with you again tomorrow morning but please don’t hesitate to give me a ring in
the meantime if there’s anything else I can do. Oh, and I’m going to try to sort out some spa passes for you if that appeals?’

‘Brilliant,’ I reply, and for a split second I allow myself the fantasy that he’s holding my gaze a little too long.

As he starts walking away, I turn to Anisha. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘Go and sunbathe on our balcony for a couple of hours – nobody will know we’re not on the course if we’re locked away there. Then we spend the rest of the day by the
pool.’

I nod. ‘Sounds good.’

When James is out of sight, we start walking back in the direction of the hotel. ‘Hang on,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘What if someone realises our buggy hasn’t moved and tells James? We’ll be busted. There’s a valet hovering around over there – he said hello to him.’

‘Oh . . . shit.’ She looks around. ‘Okay, I’ve got a plan,’ she says, striding to the golf buggy. ‘Hop in.’

I frown. ‘Do you know how to drive one of these things?’

‘It’s not a Lamborghini. There’s a key and two pedals – go and stop. I think even I can manage that.’

I lug my golf bag into the back and sit down next to her. I’d have to admit it looks innocuous enough, like a little fair-ground ride. She turns the key and it emits a low hum.

‘We need to find somewhere to park this thing and hide it for a couple of hours,’ she says.

‘Just don’t go anywhere near where James went.’

She flashes me another
I’m-not-an-imbecile
look and puts her foot on the pedal – when it becomes clear it’s not as foolproof as she’d assumed.

She hopelessly underestimates its horsepower, sending us flying off like we’re on Space Mountain. She then removes her foot, bringing us to a violent stop. This is followed by another
attempt to get going – again, way too fast.

We trundle along the road in this stop-start fashion for the next minute or so while passers-by appear quite taken by the unintentional hilarity.

‘This is like a bloody circus,’ I tell her, lowering my hat over my face.

‘It’s harder than it looks,’ she says hysterically, as a BMW turns the corner in front of us and slams on its breaks, narrowly avoiding a collision.

‘Bugger! This must be a one-way street,’ Anisha shrieks, scanning her eyes round the buggy. ‘Where’s reverse?’

‘I don’t bloody know!’

The BMW beeps again. ‘What are you going to do?’

She gets out and glares at the driver, hand on hip. ‘Now look here . . .’

I grab her by the arm and drag her back in. ‘Don’t have a buggy-rage incident – we’re trying to keep a low profile.’

The owner of the BMW gets out and marches towards us. He’s in his fifties with a large, round belly and a scowl on his face that’d make a Bullmastiff look Botoxed. Then he pauses and
takes a good look at both of us. There is an immediate volte-face in his demeanour. ‘
Hola
.’

‘So sorry about that,’ Anisha smiles sweetly. He looks like he’s forgotten already and instead launches into a one-way conversation in Spanish that, even allowing for my poor
grasp of languages, sounds very much as if he’s hitting on my friend.

Anisha glances at me for help.

‘
Gracias
,’ I tell him, nodding and hoping this will encourage him to leave. It doesn’t.

‘WE NEED TO GO NOW,’ I mouth loudly, pointing at his BMW. ‘DO YOU THINK YOU COULD MOVE YOUR CAR? WE WILL DO A THREE-POINT TURN.’

He grins and looks at Anisha’s chest.

‘CAN YOU MOVE YOUR CAR?’ Anisha tries again, at which point he slides his elbow onto our roof – trying to look cool – and gives us a full-sensory inspection of an armpit
emitting the bouquet of a decomposing camel.

I glance up and to my horror see James talking to one of the hotel guests a little way down the road.

‘Just go,’ I say urgently.

‘It’s a bit tricky at the moment,’ Anisha replies.

James turns and looks in our direction.

‘GO!’ I repeat, ‘Before he spots us.’

So she does – right over Armpit Man’s foot. As Anisha begins a frantic attempt to turn round, he starts hopping up and down furiously, waving his fist at us and banging on the roof
of the buggy.

With no apparent reverse option the only thing Anisha can do is perform a wide, circular manoeuvre – a no-point turn – which takes us directly over the pristinely manicured flower
beds. The golf valet, witnessing this illegal move, sprints out of his cubicle to the vandalised begonias, which he examines briefly before making chase.

‘DRIVE, ANISHA!’ I yell and she slams on the accelerator until we’re whizzing along a pathway towards the driving range. There’s a trail of billowing dust behind us and I
recall that final scene from
Thelma and Louise
as we head for the horizon, dodging several pushchairs and a pensioner.

‘There’s a block of apartments over there – we can hide out behind them,’ I tell her as she manages to perform a handbrake turn without the benefit of a handbrake and
darts behind them.

By the time we finally slow and pull into a discreet parking space, I don’t know what’s making me feel more queasy: the hangover, the adrenalin, or the assault course my stomach has
just endured.

I look at her and shake my head as I think about the fact that we’ve got another two days here. ‘We’re going to have to come up with a better plan.’

The rest of the day, I’m happy to report, represents something of an improvement. Once we’ve completed the fifteen-minute trek back to the hotel room, collapsed
into bed for two hours – having not even made it onto the balcony – we check the coast is clear and make our way back to the buggy.

We retrieve the two sets of golf clubs we’d hidden behind a bush and Anisha, familiar with its mechanisms now, returns us to the buggy park without incident.

The valet from earlier has fortuitously finished his shift, so all we have to do is pick up our golf bags and head for a nice lunch at the clubhouse.

It’s there that I discover a rather surprising fact: if you’re wearing the right gear, and drop sentences – loudly and frequently – into conversation such as:
‘
That was a great shot of yours at the fifteenth hole
’, then nobody suspects a thing.

For the rest of the day and night we’re free to sunbathe, eat, drink and chat to the other clientele, as long as we make our excuses when they start asking anything vaguely
golf-related.

When James comes to see us the following morning and asks how we found the course, all I have to do is say: ‘It was wonderful. We loved the way each hole requires the utmost attention and
concentration; everything rests on the player’s ability and problem-solving skills to overcome the obstacles on the course.’

I took that directly from a golf course review website I found and have used it precisely five times on different people in the last seven hours.

To my surprise, the whole charade is proving to be an absolute doddle.

By the end of our second full day, I’ve read so many golfing websites and leaflets in the pro shop, as well as regurgitating conversations overheard in the clubhouse, that I’ve
nearly convinced myself I can actually play the game.

As we’re wandering back to the hotel that evening after having ‘been on the course’ all afternoon, I’ve almost forgotten there’s any subterfuge involved
whatsoever.

James bounds over to us as we’re heading for the lift. ‘How was your round today, ladies?’

‘Well, James, the two hundred yard par three that’s slightly uphill was a challenge, but by the time we got to six and seven things were less troublesome. The back nine is a little
more open up until the eighteenth, don’t you find?’

He responds with a twinkly-eyed laugh that makes my insides turn over. ‘I wouldn’t know – golf’s not my game.’

‘Really?’ Anisha asks.

‘I’m afraid not – I just represent the hotel. I wouldn’t know one end of a golf club from . . . anyway. I came to ask if it’d be possible to spend ten minutes or so
with you both this evening to let you know a bit more about the hotel and the area. I promise it won’t be the hard sell – I just need to tell my boss I’ve given you the full
run-down.’

‘I’d expect nothing less given that they’ve been generous enough to invite us on this trip,’ Anisha replies.

We meet James that evening in one of the bars overlooking the pool.

‘Before I get started,’ he begins, ‘I have some news for you both.’

‘The spa passes?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Better. I’ve managed to get you both places in the amateur round of the Palermo Cup tomorrow. Two competitors dropped out.’ He looks at our faces expectantly, the expectation
apparently being that we’ll leap up and down with joy.

In fact, Anisha has turned green.

‘You could be on television and everything,’ he adds.

Anisha manages a flaccid, ‘Brilliant!’

‘You’re not nervous, are you?’ he asks.