Perfectly Ordinary People(30)

That, pretty much, is how the next eight days were filled. Despite the fact that we did so little, or perhaps precisely because we did so little, it slipped by in the blink of an eye.

We’d have breakfast, walk Max and then return home to cook lunch. We’d eat on the balcony watching the surfers, then have a siesta, followed by luxurious, hour-long sex sessions. Then we’d shower, walk Max again and stop at a bar for a beer. Finally, we’d eat in the ‘canteen’ next door, walk to the end for a drink in Little Hawaii, and then home.

I missed out the ‘swim’ part of the schedule because there was a reason that Dan had smirked when I’d suggested a swim: the sea was freezing.

Did Dan decide to tell me that, though? Did he choose to warn me? No he did not. Instead, he eagerly changed into his swimming shorts and suspended a pair of swim goggles around his neck. We crossed the road and laid our towels between the dunes before he shouted, ‘Last one in’s a sissy. Last one to go head-under cooks dinner!’ after which we both began to run.

He ‘unfortunately’ tripped on some grass, which left me powering ahead, and so, laughing, I put everything I had into it and managed my finest sprint in years. I was up to my ankles when I realised how far behind me Dan had fallen, and up to my thighs by the time I understood why.

With a scream, I stopped. The water had barely reached my bikini line but the sensation was like pins and needles. And I’ve been swimming in Scarborough in May, so I’m honestly no wimp.

‘Whassup?’ Dan called out. ‘Cold?’

I turned back to see him doubled up with laughter at the shoreline. ‘It’s fucking freezing, Dan!’ I said, already wading back.

‘Not actually freezing,’ Dan said, through continued laughter. ‘It’s a few degrees above. About thirteen.’

‘Thirteen!’ I exclaimed.

‘It’s the Atlantic. Why do you think no one else is swimming?’

Of course, I splashed him. He must have known that was coming, but he nonchalantly glanced back towards the house to make it all seem like a surprise.

On the final day he drove us to the centre of Faro. I was feeling like a philistine for having spent the entire eight days on the beach, plus I wanted to buy something for Mum. By common accord, there were too many people in our family for gift-buying to be inclusive. But everyone knew the one rule that allowed you to exclude everyone else. You had to get something for Mum.

The centre of Faro was prettier than I’d expected. I’d feared it would be a bit Benidormy, but it wasn’t. The pedestrian streets were elegantly tiled and the buildings low-rise; the shops and cafés looked local-owned, which made a change from Starbucks and Primark back home. With the occasional exception of a restaurant offering ‘Fish and chips – English spoken’, it still felt authentic and foreign and nice.

As far as gifts were concerned, I couldn’t find any local options I could imagine my mother might like. The shops everywhere were full of Chinese-made fridge magnets and, for some inexplicable reason, lace. In the end I settled on a tube of Portuguese custard tarts, or rather Pastéis de Nata. On the plus side, I got to test a freebie before I committed to my purchase and it was delicious. On the downside, my choice implied that I’d be forced to visit my parents the next day so that the tarts would still be fresh. Deciding it was wise to keep open the option of just eating them all myself, I grabbed a bottle of Porto as well.

On the way back we picked his parents up from the airport. They looked less rested and were paler than when they’d left eight days earlier, but I suppose that’s just what happens when you live somewhere like Praia de Faro and choose to holiday in the centre of Montmartre.

Once home, they carried their cases upstairs, but Dan’s mother came jogging back down almost immediately. ‘Have you been using our bed?’ she asked, glancing between the two of us.

‘Who’s been sleeping in my bed?’ Dan boomed. When no one laughed he continued, ‘Not at all. Why would we want to do that?’

‘Well, you changed the sheets,’ Carolina said.

‘That was my idea,’ I lied. ‘Sort of to welcome you home. It’s nice to come home to clean sheets, isn’t it?’

‘Why would we, anyway?’ Dan asked again, feigning confusion. ‘I don’t want to sleep in your bed. God knows what you get up to in there.’

‘Very funny,’ Dan’s mother said.

‘Maximiano got in there once,’ Dan told her, ‘which was another reason to change the sheets. I showed Ruth the balcony and forgot to shut the door. So he spent the whole day on your bed.’

‘He loved it there,’ I said. ‘He was stretched out like a sunbather on the beach.’

‘He loves anything that’s forbidden,’ Carolina said, wiggling a finger at Dan. ‘Just like you!’

And then as she started to remount the stairs she paused. ‘Thank you,’ she said, without turning back. ‘Thank you for changing the sheets.’

Once she was out of sight, Dan tapped palms with me. ‘Great lying. You’re hired,’ he whispered.

Getting home the next day felt tough. It was raining in London – that dull, grey drizzle that Britain so excels at – and after the blue skies and dazzle of Portugal, it felt like God had forgotten to switch on the lights.

But most traumatic of all was going our separate ways at St Pancras. I hadn’t, for some reason, prepared myself for the moment when Dan would say, ‘So! This is me . . .’ while pointing to a tunnel to the left.